Of Victorian Age
by Merdealors
Summary: Sherlock belongs to the 21th century, to mobiles, computers.. he's cool, smart and sexy. But when Mycrofts involves him in a case more fantastic than any case before, times change ... in the word's very literal sense... London is still a jungle, full of villains, but nothing is altogether ... timed right. Rated T to be safe.
1. Unfit for dinner

**A/N: this story may sound like a canon plot - in the beginning. But, do not be fooled. Strange things are going to happen and in the end, Baker Street will be a strange place to come back to, in more sense than one...  
**

**So, give it a chance. Read, enjoy - and review!  
**

**1 Unfit for dinner**

„You're nuts, Mycroft" Sherlock said, as cool as the cucumber on his plate, and he bit into the same with more gusto than the sadly aged vegetable deserved.

Much to John Watson's amusement, the punishment followed swiftly, as Sherlock grimaced disgustedly. "What on earth is that? This tastes like …. "

"Bilge water that has been eaten before" Mycroft interrupted his younger brother. "I know. I told the chef the recipe must have gotten it all wrong. He didn't listen. Like someone else I could mention."

"Then why let me eat it?" Sherlock snapped back accusingly.

"Because I wanted to proof a point. With you, that always takes cruel mistreatment. It's because of your inbred intransigency."

While John rolled his eyes, the younger Holmes glared beastly at his elder brother. "And the point is…?"

"The point is that I'm not talking nonsense, usually, that I know what I'm saying, and that therefore listening to me and heeding my advice is _not_ a sign of utter foolishness!"

Sherlock huffed sarcastically, Mycroft paled with anger and John found it necessary to intervene before nuclear war would be declared. "What advice are we talking about, exactly?"

"Good question, John" Sherlock destroyed every chance of maintaining peace and civility "which advice, indeed? There are so many of Mycroft Holmes' bits of sage and wisdom, one gets confused."

Pointedly Mycroft turned to Watson. "I had the nerve, John, the unbelievable insolence, of telling my most august younger brother to keep out of harm's way for a change. Lestrade has done his best to pacify his superiors, Anderson and Donovan have been transferred…..

"And _**promoted**_" Sherlock interposed and his tone, at the same time outraged, disbelieving and dismissive, showed what he thought of _that_.

Mycroft sighed sadly, cleared his throat and assumed that he might as well go on "Still the media want to see the blood of Sherlock Holmes. This journalist never forgave herself for her blunder with Richard Brook. It is obvious that she will continue to blame Sherlock as the guilty part in this. She was, after all, fired."

"Serves her right" Sherlock said viciously.

"Shut up, Sherlock" John and Mycroft said in unison, and, astonishingly, he did exactly that. If only to finish the wine bottle, and order a glass of whisky from the Diogenes Club Restaurant's old, distinguished waiter. Single Malt, Scotch Highlands, Single Cask, at least 18 years old. No, the waiter could choose, nobody could say Sherlock Holmes was a very particular customer.

John restrained himself with admirable effort. "You know" he calmly said "that this will cost your brother a King's ransom?"

"Consider it a compensation for luring me into a trap" Sherlock barked back. "He's lying, you know. He doesn't give a damn about my wellbeing, or my good name in the press, he wants me to work for him, on a case I do not like, that's all."

Watson opened his mouth to berate his friend for his unfounded paranoia –doubtlessly to be himself reminded that paranoia per definitionem was _always_ unfounded – when he saw Mycroft's pinched face.

"See" little brother sneered triumphantly. "He can't hide it. I'm right, as always."

"You know, John" Mycroft stately said as he dabbed his mouth with the embroidered serviette in the most genteel, dainty and becoming way "there are times at which I wish you'd broken his jaw for good when you punched him in the face."

At once John felt a red hot wave of guilt and remorse flood his neck and face. He looked at the table cloth – naturally it matched the napkins – and uselessly fingered the cutlery. "Sherlock took me by surprise" he muttered "I didn't know what I was doing."

And it was true. On a sunny Friday afternoon, actually the third anniversary of his burial, Sherlock Holmes had entered Dr Watson's practice, grinned and said "hello, John. How's life? By the way, don't be sad about your wife, she was a bitch from the start, only married you for a doctor's salary, you didn't lose much when she left you for a richer, more successful man."

After a heartbeat of adjusting to the situation John's reaction had been quick, forceful and straight to the point - which happened to be the point of Sherlock's chin.

Holmes' lean, pale and strangely unchanged face still bore the mark of it, although the misguided reunion had taken place a fortnight ago. John remembered the first thing he had said, no, _roared_ loud enough to make the windows rattle, as soon as Sherlock was down on the floor and covered his head with both arms: "How dare you not being dead and not tell me?"

"You said you didn't want me to be dead" Holmes had retorted, a bit muffled as two teeth were wobbly.

"You weren't supposed to be listening. Have you no shame?"

"I thought you might be glad to see me."

"_Of course _I'm glad to see you, what has that to do with anything?"

Not for the life of his John could recall how things had developed from there.

Somehow, much later that day, or, rather, night, they both had ended up at Angelo's, where the much moved and shaken proprietor had treated them to Sicilian wine and streams of grappa, until they had taken to their beds, which happened to bear a sudden yet striking resemblance to the restaurant floor.

It had been a long, arduous Saturday after that, full of physical suffering and emotional awkwardness. But in the end, Sherlock Holmes, by one way or the other, convinced his friend as well as a thunderstruck Mrs. Hudson that he was, as usual, not to blame for anything. He had acted in the best interest of the innocent public in persecuting the remainders of Moriarty's gang, and he had been a virtuous angel all the time, who had not even looked at another landlady or another army doctor in more than three years. Cross my heart and hope to die.

Since then, things had returned to pre-fall normal at a breathtaking pace. A happy and very merry Sherlock had moved back in into 221B, called Lestrade, who unfortunately had been warned of the conspicuous event by Mycroft, revived his website, forgotten to ask John how he had afforded the rent during the three years of his flatmate's absence, caused a chaos in the kitchen, turned the rest of the flat upside down, and hacked John's laptop, "to be on top of recent developments" as he had aptly put it.

It was a secret John shared only with Mycroft – or so they both thought – that the doctor used to sneak into Sherlock's bedroom at night to make sure that he was really there.

14 days and it was as if the three years of absence had been nothing but a childish night mare. Except for one thing: Sherlock couldn't get any work. Lestrade fought like a lion, Mycroft pulled an overwhelming lot of strings behind the scene, and still the Superintendent was adamant. He insisted on the Consulting Detective applying for a license. As no official authorities can issue a PI's license in the UK, the simple lawyer's trick banned Sherlock Holmes from his profession indefinitely.

The British Government, in the person of Mycroft Holmes, did not hesitate to remind his younger brother of that small yet not altogether unimportant detail. "Dear boy, it's not as if you're struggling with an overload of meaningful occupation. Unless you call stalking Mrs Hudson's latest love interest an important issue."

Sherlock's cheeks showed hectic red spots; John muttered "I'm sure he means well" and left it in the dark whether he meant Mrs Hudson's lover or her wayward tenant.

"It's your fault, Mycroft. You promised me an American license, weeks ago" Sherlock flared up.

"Dear boy, you only returned from the dead two weeks ago, and I did call my American friends day before yesterday. Patience, dear boy. One way or the other, we will get you back into trade. In the meantime…"

Slowly, deliberately, Sherlock rose from his chair, the perfect image of a furious wolf, angered by a most stupid attempt at caging him.

It was the waiter's timely return that saved Mycroft from a fate too gruesome to think about.

The old man put the ridiculously expensive whisky in front of the youngest guest and stayed where he was; waiting for the most exquisite and delectable show of Mycroft's younger brother choking on a drink he detested, as they all knew perfectly well.

However, there was nothing for it. As Sherlock had ordered the most expensive drink on the menu, he had to drink it, if only to spite his penny-pitching brother.

In a rare moment of glory, John Watson excelled himself. He grabbed the unsuspecting glass, and gulped the fine stuff down in one, determined stride. Deep inside his inner self he pitied his own bad luck immensely. To waste a divine whisky by swallowing it like bad medicine….. A bit hoarse, he smiled into their awe-stricken faces. "What exactly is the case that brought us here, me in my finest clothes and Sherlock on his worst behavior?"

Mycroft indicated to the waiter to leave them alone before he answered. Or _tried _to answer, as his little brother spoke first. "Why ask, John? Our beloved government have made a fool of themselves. Or are about to do so. My brother wants to make a cat's paw of me, but he will fail. Some paid agent will make a mess of pulling the chestnuts from the fire, and we will have a good laugh as soon as it is all in the papers."

"Your amusement is your province, dear boy, you may have it or not have it when- and wherever you like. But let me put it this way: If you do not accept this case, I will stop paying your bills. You're unemployed, penniless, and, to put it mildly, you're of a somewhat dubious legal existence. By law, you aren't a British citizen. You're technically dead. And it can take British authorities a boringly long time to clear up such messes."

"You would push me into the streets if I do not do as you say?"

"No, Sherlock, I would put you in jail, that's something very different."

"That's absurd."

"Truth sometimes is."

"Now, boys, let's not get carried away" John said, feeling more and more uncomfortable with every passing minute. "Surely we can talk about this like grown-ups."

Mycroft cocked a brow. "I see two grown up men, do you see another adult around here somewhere?"

"Stop it, Mycroft, Sherlock, both of you. Now, what is this case about, what would we have to do and why can't the MI 6 solve it themselves?" As soon as he finished speaking, John glared at Sherlock with all the menace and threat he could muster. He would have no more of this idiotic bickering or he would leave.

For once, Sherlock got the message and kept quiet.

Mycroft fixated a point somewhere behind Sherlock's left shoulder while he answered. "My department…."

"One of your many departments" Sherlock couldn't resist correcting him.

"The _British Government_" Mycroft continued, clearly unnerved by the superfluous jibe "has been offered a ….. machine. A most revolutionary new technology that might be of the utmost military relevance. The price is … well, let's just say that three times the treasures of Solomon would not suffice. But, as this invention defies the laws of physic as Einstein described them, I assume, it is still for a song. _If_ it works, that is."

John watched Sherlock undergoing a fascinating change. The change from boredom, anger and repulsion to interest and eagerness, as well as, finally, the thrill of the chase. "These two physicists, the Russian and the Frenchman who were murdered last week…" the younger brother slowly said with gleaming eyes.

"Elementary, isn't it?" Mycroft retorted. "It is so obvious, nobody saw it. I knew I could pique your interest."

"If you're speaking about Drs Alexei Iwanowitsch Usumov and Jerome Sassenage, they died in a car accident" John tried to keep this conversation in the realms of fact and sensibility.

"Nonsense" both Holmes brothers said at once and Sherlock added "one look at the dog's collar and you know it has been murder."

"But I thought…."

"Do not think John, it's such a distraction if ordinary minds overtax themselves. So, Mycroft, you think the self-styled inventor of this H. G. Wells machine wants to cheat the government of a lot of money by offering them a fraud. And the two scientists found out and died for it. Case solved. What do you need me for?"

"On the contrary, dear boy. I am the only man left in Europe who thinks the machine is real. This is it, Sherlock. Absolute power. We must not, indeed we _cannot_ allow for this technology to fall into the wrong hands. I need you to prove that, as my colleagues think I'm mad."

"You most probably are, brother dearest."

"Come and have a look for yourself."

"I'm not a scientist."

"No. You are Sherlock Holmes. And I _do_ need your help, little brother."

"I'd like to have that last bit in writing!"

"In every language and in as many copies as you like."

The rest of the conversation, which in fact went on for several minutes as soon as Sherlock had recovered from the shock of his brother's unheard-of meekness and amiability, was wasted on the third man at the table.

John was sulking, he knew he was sulking, and he was mad at himself for it, because it was immature, childish and unworthy of him but he couldn't help it. He was so very angry, his stomach burned and his heart fluttered. The two brothers might find their conversation fascinating, but he did not. He was sick of being insulted, belittled and what not. He was sick, sick, _sick_ of it. He would go home and take care of himself, as nobody else seemed willing to do it.

Watson staggered to his feet. The room spun around him, and he grabbed the table to steady himself. The first, vague suspicion befell him that this state had more causes than his anger alone. Uncomprehending, helpless he stared at Sherlock. His friend was shouting at him, they both were, but John didn't hear a thing.

The pain in his abdomen became unbearable.

His sight was blurred and his body too numb to feel the two pairs of hands that kept him from falling. His mind was shutting down, bit by bit, the message from his professional knowledge reached his conscious thoughts in small instalments, and much belated.

Poison. The food – no, too much time elapsed. The whisky. With its strong natural taste, the burning sensation and the heavy colouring from the cask. The whisky that had been meant for Sherlock Holmes…..

John wanted to say it, wanted to warn him, but he could not speak.

The surgeon went limp while Mycroft barked frantically into his mobile for an ambulance.

With increasing despair Sherlock tried to rouse his flatmate, but to no avail.

When the restaurant, one of the few rooms at the Diogenes in which speaking was permitted, (speaking, yes, but not a rampaging scandal like this one), was invaded by the medics, both Holmes brothers could only stand by and watch as John's heart stopped beating.


	2. Heisenberg's uncertainty

**2 Heisenberg's uncertainty**

"Coffee for you?"

Sherlock looked at his brother as if Mycroft had asked him to grow pointed ears. "What for?"

"It's a beverage. You could for example drink it."

"Would that help matters?"

"It might help _you_!"

The younger one shook his head. "No!"

Mycroft frowned. This was worse than he had anticipated. "You should have stayed back at the hospital, dear boy. I'm beginning to believe you're no good here."

As 'here' happened to be Mycroft's private apartment in London, the remark did nothing to calm little brother's frayed nerves. "If you do not want me here, just say the word!"

"Sherlock, you take pride in your exact and unfailing memory. Tell me, how many times did I ask you to come and you refused? Was it four dozen times or only three?"

"I did not come to pay you a visit!"

"No, you came because they kicked you out of John's room, you found it beneath you to wait in the waiting room, and you could not stand the thought of awaiting the outcome in Baker Street."

"Give me that coffee!" Sherlock demanded, and Mycroft gladly obeyed.

It was only natural that a nervous, irritated Sherlock, irrationally but deeply humiliated by the fact that he had not seen this coming, would earn himself an unkind dismissal from any hospital in this world. That he would never admit how he really felt, especially not to his 'caring-is-not-an-advantage' kind of elder brother, was another certainty.

Mycroft sighed inwardly. It had always been like this between them. Well, not always, little brother had been a very trusting, very warm-hearted child who used to cling to his adored big brother everywhere Mycroft went. When their father returned, this trust had proved a cursed, not a blessing, and a fiercely protective elder brother had thought it best to burn it out of Sherlock, once and for all.

He hadn't considered back then that it would necessarily mean for Sherlock to lose his ability to trust in and care for _anyone_, including Mycroft Holmes.

Together the elder brother's misguided affection and a father's misguided concept of discipline and strength, had created a hole inside the little one, an emptiness which only work could fill, work and the self-esteem it brought, however temporarily.

To rob the little one of this tonic – work – was tantamount to seriously harming him, and sometimes, in the deep of night, Mycroft thought of extremely creative, extremely time-consuming ways to murder a certain Superintendent.

Of course, these thoughts were only for his own enjoyment. In his position, he had other means at his disposal.

Like many men whose self-importance had long since outgrown their intellect, the Superintendent was careless in his private life, _very _careless.

Mycroft had patiently collected every shred of information about the man's countless affairs, his special tastes, the locations he frequently used and the peculiar fact that these locations somehow never suffered a police raid…..

One of these days, very soon, Mycroft would have a nice little chat with the Superintendent, who - what a happy coincidence - desired not only a career in the British Conservative Party but also a membership in the Diogenes Club.

Unnecessary to mention that after this particular chat, career, membership as well as a PI-license for Sherlock would no longer be a topic of interest, to no one, especially not to the Superintendent. If subsequently DI Lestrade's career would flourish – nobody would object to that.

With a will, Mycroft called himself back to the here and now. First things first, and first he had an urgent case for little brother.

As Sherlock wouldn't even consider working for his brother once he'd gotten his life back, the Superintendent had a last respite.

"Sherlock" Mycroft began hesitatingly. Little brother was always happier when elder brother seemed not altogether sure of himself. "This case I was talking about when John was … attacked….." Encouraged by Sherlock's silence, Mycroft went on somewhat bolder "I still want you to take it."

Mycroft winced when his brother darted round and glared at him, pale with anger. "With John in hospital, do you think there is anything in this world that could keep me _away_ from this case?"

"You think there's a connection?"

"Of course. The poison was meant for me, Moriarty's men are dead or in prison, I did not take another case since my return, so the attack's purpose was to prevent me from taking your case."

"There are those who wish you harm from your previous cases" Mycroft reminded his brother.

"None of them have the means to bribe or coerce a Diogenes Club waiter into poisoning me. Wilkins acted under some kind of external duress, unless _you_ ordered him to put the poison into my drink."

"I will pretend I didn't hear the last bit, dear boy. You will therefore investigate the offer made to the government on the assumption that my theory is correct?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft, there is no such thing as a time machine. It isn't possible. Everyone knows that. Heisenberg's principles…"

"Which you only know from your sadly unstructured school education. Besides, a while ago 'everybody' knew for a fact that the earth is flat and that the sun turns around it. There are more things in heaven and earth…."

"Goodness gracious me, Mycroft, spare me the quotes from the Bard on Love and Lovers, it's not as if you ever actually _go_ to the theatre."

"Let's talk science then. You speak of Heisenberg's uncertainty. Here's another uncertainty principle for you: It is uncertainty that defines us. We do not know what is going to happen when we leave our beds in the morning and I think that this uncertainty is the only reason to leave them at all."

"Is this your private philosophy or have you been at the community college?"

"Imagine the possibilities, Sherlock. Travel back in time, change history to your own liking, kill your enemies' parents, save a life here with advanced medicine, take a life there where you think fit…. Or tell any politician, tell anyone at all, that you can predict the future and all hell will break loose. Financial markets, elections, everything would be pointless. People wouldn't get married, have no children because someone told them they'd have a nasty divorce in a few years' time; or parent an underachiever who's going to rape the neighbour's girl…."

"The later wouldn't exactly be a crying shame, would it? Think of the poor girl, Mycroft!"

"That's not the point, dear boy…."

"It never is with you. Not the neighbour's girl, not any girl or guy, it's the big, big picture for Mycroft Holmes or nothing."

"Oh, we're quite the philanthropist now. Tell me, Mr Philanthropist, if you'd get a chance to go back in time, strangle James Moriarty in his cradle, and get away to the future unharmed and unpunished, what would you do?"

"'What if' is a child's game. It's pointless…"

"There were these 12 people who died in the flats Moriarty blew up, including this nice old blind Lady. There was little Carl and all the others James sent to the next world without their consent. Think of all these nasty games he played with you, before he robbed you of three years of your life. You travel back, kill him while he's helpless, and nothing of this will ever happen. Aren't you even tempted?"

"Mycroft, you've been trying to be Mephistopheles since the day I was born, but you're nothing but a jack-in-the-box. I'm not Thursday Next, and there's an end to it."

Mycroft was dumbfounded. "I know you're not exactly human, dear boy, but I'd never taken you for a week day."

"Thursday Next" Sherlock explained patiently, or what he thought was patient, "is the protagonist of a series of novels by Jasper Fforde. A detective, actually. In her world, time travel is normal. She can also enter books, like foreign countries, and kill or save fictional characters in these books. She once saved the life of Jane Eyre."

"I had no idea you like books these days."

"I don't. John likes them. And he likes to talk about them. That's all."

In this second, the phone rang.

It was one of a few, perfect moments in time, in which Mycroft was sure that life and fate just followed orders, _his_ orders.

Usually little brother wasn't around in these moments, as he had the tendency to undermine Mycroft's authority just by existing and being Sherlock, but today was an exception.

The very instant Mycroft thought that he had blown his chances by allowing this conversation to stray back to the topic of John Watson's wellbeing, the phone was the perfect distraction. Not one of several mobiles but the old fashioned phone on the table by the window. The phone only used by Mycroft's staff, as it's security was water-tight.

Sherlock jumped and virtually whipped the thing out of Mycroft's hand.

He listened to the voice at the other end for a few seconds, then his shoulders fell and elder brother feared the worst.

At once, Mycroft contemplated emigrating. Under an alias. No, make that a _dozen_ aliases.

However, when Sherlock turned round, his eyes were gleaming and his face was flushed. "He'll live" he said breathlessly, and Mycroft found little brother's display of unveiled emotion terribly embarrassing. "John will make a full recovery. Two weeks or so the doctor has told Anthea. I can bring him home the day after tomorrow."

Mycroft had to pull himself together rigorously; he was light-headed and a bit nauseous. It didn't bear contemplating what would have come to pass if the news had been bad. But at the same time, he couldn't believe his luck. "John had a cardiac arrest" he said. "And now he's just fine?"

"Mycroft, did you ever listen when I tried to tell you about murder by poison? There's more than one substance that paralyses the heart muscle without damaging it. Once the paralysis is gone….."

"I _did _listen, I always listen to you, dear boy." Mycroft resisted temptation to wipe his brow. It was a terrifying thought, to get on the really, really wrong side of a younger brother who knew everything there was to know about how to commit a perfect murder …...

"Now, brother dearest" Sherlock interrupted his brother's thoughts "About _our_ case ….."

"Thanks, Sherlock, I knew I could rely on you…"

"Of course you can, …. on some minor conditions!"

"Conditions? You want to dictate conditions to _me_?"

"You want _me_ to do something for _you_, Mycroft, not vice versa. Therefore you will pay all my outstanding bills, you will pay the rent for our flat in Baker Street to Mrs Hudson for a whole twelvemonths in advance, you will arrange for a convincing bank error in favour of Dr John Watson which should terminate John's shouting matches with the cash machines for a long, long time. _And,_ you will order a set of new clothes for me, as I came back from the dead in my winding sheet and a few T-Shirts. _I_ choose, _you_ pay."

"Anything else?" Mycroft asked, feigning anger.

"No, nothing. You meet my terms and I will tear your time machine apart, _and_ find the murderer of the two scientists. Trust me, two weeks and two days from now, you'll laugh at the ravings of your own imagination."

"Why this exact time?"

"Two days to identify and find your villain, two weeks to go on holiday with John first! I liked the Bahamas. Or could you arrange for a stay in Balmoral with your old Lady friend?"

Mycroft paled a bit, he felt it. "You will take the case _now_, while John is still in hospital."

"No!"

"Sherlock…."

"I fought and destroyed James Moriarty's entire organisation single handed, I jumped off a roof and faked my death, I slept under bridges and jumped into collapsing buildings in the name of law and order and you think I do not need a holiday?"

"The government's decision must be made _now_, there's no room for frivolities and frolics!"

"Mycroft?"

"What?"

"You say it really _is_ a time machine?"

"Yes!"

"So what do two weeks matter? Remember Einstein, everything is relative. Sorry, dearest, I must dash. The Pacific awaits. I'll send you the bill."

Mycroft closed his eyes in despair. "How come you know that the provider gave us a month to consider his offer?"

"You wouldn't wait 'till the very last second before you come to me in a case like that. I might find a way to refuse you, and you would need time to look for a substitute. Bye, Mycroft. Take care and think of your diet!"

"Sherlock, do me a favour!"

"Not if I can avoid it."

"Take a bungalow in Southern France. The weather is fine there, too."

"As is your spying equipment, no doubt."

"I'm touched, dear boy. You know me by heart."

"Why should I take the house?"

"It's flat, you can jump off the roof as often as you want, you cannot die from it. Besides, they don't sell whisky there."

"Dear Mycroft. Always the worrier."

"I'm an old man, brother dear, and you cost me additional years of my life. I do need a good night's sleep from time to time."

"I promise I'll take the house into consideration. Anything else before I'm off?"

"Yes, one last question. You asked for a lot of money which normally doesn't interest you at all, but for the only thing that _is_ of special interest to you, you did not ask. Why is that?"

"The only thing between me and a long and prestigious career as the champion of the law is a certain Superintendent. As he is a spent force, why worry about a licence?"

"A spent force?"

Sherlock grinned, and not for the first time Mycroft marvelled at little brother's morphing qualities. The best schools, classy house-teachers, the best training a young gentleman could get, and still Sherlock Holmes looked the perfectly vulgar cad scoundrel whenever he wanted to.

"The man's a swine" Sherlock said lightly. "And I have a pig hunter for a brother. You'll make him squeak sooner or later, and presently, I'm going on vacation anyway."

"How do you…."

Sherlock smiled even more radiantly. "Sally Donovan gets talkative when she drinks too much. She liked advancement, but disliked the Superintendent's advances. Covent Garden's Madame Butterfly taught them that their definitions of an overture aren't compatible, and, as the Superintendent had invested in top seats and Sally in an almost topless dress, they were thoroughly disappointed in each other. Farewell, brother dear. I'm off to kinder shores! Southern France, perhaps?"

"I'll have the tickets sent to Baker Street" Mycroft shouted at Sherlock's receding back, then the door fell shut and the little one was gone.

Mycroft rubbed his face with both hands and sat down. He was shaking from head to toe. This had been close, much too close for his liking. He planned and schemed and plotted to _avoid_ close calls, damn life's idiotic sense of humour. Who could have guessed that John would drink the darn whisky?

The phone rang.

Well, let it.

Mycroft endured the first ring, the second, the third.

The fourth was too much for the virtuous civil servant inside him and he took the call, much to his own chagrin. "What?" he bellowed at his counterpart.

"I'm sorry Sir" Anthea's soft, cultivated voice replied. "Our man has told me that your brother has left and I thought you might wish to know that Wilkins is beside himself with worry and remorse. Could you speak to him, it would mean the world to him."

"Wilkins is an old tattering fool."

"With all due respect, Sir, it's not Wilkins' fault that Dr Watson hasn't got Sherlock's weight, height or drug resilience."

Mycroft scratched his head and thanked God that nobody had spying cameras in _his_ flat. "Well, we're past the danger. I'll talk to Wilkins in the morning. For now tell him we've done it. Sherlock will take the case."

"Forgive me for mentioning it again, but I still do not see the point in all this."

Out of habit, Mycroft resisted temptation to pull his rank and silence her with a few well placed, acid jibes. It was the elder Holmes' time-honoured opinion that, if he gave in to that tempting urge just once, he'd never be able to deal with ordinary people again.

There were so many of them, and a genius like his was so very rare.

"Sherlock would inevitably refuse me, so I needed something to wet his appetite" he therefore replied most amiably. She was, after all, a trusted associate and less stupid than most. "My brother would find an attempt at his life fascinating as well as quite flattering. It is elementary that he investigates this."

"You already told me that, Sir. Twice." Was there the slightest touch of impatience to her voice? "But perhaps Sherlock was wise when he wanted to stay out of this." Yes, Anthea sounded definitely snippy. "Poisoning your own younger sibling seems a bit … far-fetched, considering that we do have our own investigators."

"Yes" Mycroft retorted, controlling his temper. "And it must have been one of them who told our enemies what the Russian and the Frenchman had found out."

Anthea sniffed. "Perhaps we should upgrade secrecy. If you suspect we have a traitor in our midst, your brother's safety might be compromised." She waited for an answer that did not come. "Sir?"

Slowly, deliberately, Mycroft put down the phone and terminated the call without another word.


	3. Stating the obvious

**3 Stating the obvious**

"Sherlock, I do not want to leave England!" john Wtason exclaimed, quite exasperated by now. "Not even London. I was _poisoned_ two days ago. Frankly, I'm not sure I'm ready to leave this hospital."

Sherlock looked at his friend with a mixture of arrogance and pity. "This blonde nurse you adore will still be here on your return, John. By the way, she's infatuated with that fat little surgeon from geriatric rehabilitation. As she's a beauty, if wholly vulgar and partly brainless, while he is an ugly beast, if wholly well-educated and partly intelligent, I say she's after his money. His family owns majority shares in two pharmaceutical upstart firms with extremely good prospects, and he's an only child."

John pressed his cushion on his face and groaned in outright despair. "If you must know" he said on his re-emergence "I'm desperately in love with that adorable boy in the room next door, the brunette with the fragile shoulders and the pretty green eyes. I'm terribly sorry to say it, Sherlock – what we had, you and I, was wonderful, but now it's ancient history."

Now Sherlock Holmes' expression was one of friendly understanding. "Good try John, but you're not gay. If you were, you'd tried to seduce me on my return. We both know you adore me, especially after I've been dead."

"I've survived without you for more than three years."

"Yes, but barely. I'll never know how you coped."

Molly Hooper, in the background (as always, Sherlock would no doubt have added, had somebody asked him) looked up from the bag she was packing and cleared her throat nervously. "Sherlock, he might not yet be fit enough for your jokes."

"Did you say anything, Molly?" Sherlock asked, highly astonished.

"No" she said hastily. "No of course not. It's just that …. I mean … you do have a sense of humour, but it always takes …. some swallowing."

"Molly" John said gravely, dead serious and with his steady gaze fixed on her "would you give me the honour of having dinner with me, tonight, at The Ritz? You're the cleverest, most sensitive, finest woman in the world and you deserve to be treated as such from time to time."

She turned an awkward crimson, and her fingers trembled as she pulled a strand of hair from her face. Almost instantly her eyes flickered away from John and over to Sherlock who, as always, ignored her.

"John, please try to listen" Sherlock was just sighing. "I've already told you, you must rest for a day or two and then we're due to leave for France. It's not so very hard to comprehend, is it?"

"Get lost, Sherlock. I'm talking to the Lady."

"You've had your fun, John, now it's time to be sensible. Mrs Hudson is expecting us for a hand-cooked dinner, especially suited for your, and I quote, 'poor upset tummy', end of quote, and you know how she is when we're late for dinner."

"Sherlock, you're always late for any effort people waste on you and sometimes, this is getting on my nerves. Like today. Would you please leave us alone?"

"No, John … thank you, but …uh . perhaps some other time." With that, Molly dropped everything she had in her hands, grabbed her things and vanished into thin air as if King Kong had asked her out.

It was the most blatant case of cowardice John could imagine, but he knew he wouldn't hold it against her. Sherlock was Sherlock and Molly was Molly and most probably things between them would never change.

"You said, France?" John surrendered to his fate. "Just you and me? For two weeks?"

"Thank you for making that sound like a prolonged and painful execution" Sherlock said angrily. "It's you and me in Baker Street, is it not?"

"And Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson, and Molly, and Mycroft and most of all, work for you and peace for me. At least sometimes."

"Don't be absurd, John, you can't stand peace, peace miffs you, indeed it tortures you, it causes a tremor in your hand and a limb in your leg. You're the most unfit man for peace I've ever known."

"Except you."

"We'll make a detective of you yet, John Hamish Watson. Can we go now?"

It was in this precise moment, for no special reason at all but for the slightly quivering left corner of Sherlock's mouth, that John became leery of him. Something was foul in the state of Denmark. He smelled a rat, or, more exact, the stink of a lie of Sherlockian proportions. He opened his mouth to accuse Holmes, when he noticed his friend's intense gaze.

Sherlock stood perfectly still, made no sound, and his grey-green eyes were pleading.

It was the look he had given John during the first drug bust Sherlock's then brand-new flatmate had experienced, the one during the 'Study in Pink'.

Since then, John knew the meaning of that look: "_For the sake of God, shut up, John. I'll explain everything later, but for now, SHUT UP!"_

Watson hrmphd once and got up. With the help of a happy Sherlock, chatting away at his heart's delight about France, and how very exciting it was, his first holiday since he had been a child, John and his bag made it to the garage.

"Where's the taxi, Sherlock?" John had a sense of foreboding.

This was not good.

Not just a bit not good, no.

_NOT_ good.

Holmes did not answer. He was too busy pushing John this way and that way, which made no sense at all until Sherlock mumbled "sorry for interrupting you earlier, but there's a whole set of Mycroft's surveillance tech' in your sick room."

Only now Watson realized that they were cautiously avoiding the CCTV-cameras everywhere. "I thought you had agreed to working with your brother for a change!"

Sherlock just shrugged and hurried on.

Finally, in a dark corner, where all cameras were either blind or out of service, Holmes stopped behind a smart, brand new little car from a well-known car rental.

In no time at all Sherlock vanished and in his place a man with white hair and a fat face, expensive sunglasses and a linen blazer over jeans and shirt pattered uneasily from one foot to the other. "Sorry to rush you John, but could you lie down on the back seat, out of sight!" It wasn't a request and it did not sound like one.

Watson, seasoned soldier and officer that he was, ignored the order.

"My stuff" he said, aghast. The wig, the clothes – all had come out of his bag which, as he saw only now, wasn't even his bag. Just the same design, size and colour, but quite new while his own was old and a bit worn. "All my things…."

"The hospital will take care of your junk. People forget their stuff here all the time. And think of the dead ones without relatives. Now, haul ass."

"My wallet…"

"I've got your watch, your money and papers, especially your passport. One never knows. Your laptop is in the car. Anything else you need right now?"

"What about an explanation?"

"We're not going to France."

"Great. Why not?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"No, not to me."

"I promise to explain everything on our way, as soon as we're out of here, unseen. Move."

"Unseen by whom?"

"Anybody. I cherish our privacy. Now…"

"I haven't been properly discharged. I thought I'll do that when we leave."

"You have been discharged on your own discretion."

"Wouldn't I have to sign for that?"

"I signed for you. Nice and proper."

"You can't."

"Of course I can. I know your name. John Watson, M. D. And I've been extremely good at faking Mycroft's signature since I've been twelve years old. Yours is much easier to copy."

"That's illegal."

"It's also practical."

"I'm still a sick man, Sherlock."

"Then why exhaust yourself? Move your ass into that car and make yourself comfortable!"

John considered the stress level that would make Sherlock Holmes, an obsessive admirer of correct Oxford English, use the word 'ass' twice in three minutes. Then he turned and made himself invisible on the back seat. As ordered.

Then he waited.

"Sherlock!" John said after 15 minutes of silent driving.

"Hmh?"

"SHERLOCK!"

"I thought even you could figure it out" Holmes said defiantly.

"I'm dizzy, my stomach aches, I've lost my medication and I'm about to lose my temper, I'm not in the mood for deductions!"

Sherlock sighed, clearly getting the needle. "Really, John, it is obvious enough that it was Mycroft who poisoned you. _Me_, that is. He wanted to poison _me_."

If Sherlock had had hopes that this would make his flatmate jump, he could think again. John did not flinch. "What did you do this time, Sherlock? Plot against NATO or lay fire to Kensington Gardens?"

"You do not believe me!"

"Not a word!"

"Mycroft wanted to get my attention, so he had Wilkins put poison in my drink, come on John, it's not _that_ difficult to comprehend!"

"He's your brother!"

"What has that to do with anything?"

Watson groaned. "Sherlock" he then said, deliberately, pronouncing every syllable with the utmost care and caution. "Please. Humour me. Start at the beginning."

"Mycroft thinks this machine is genuine. That's quite obviously what these so called 'providers' want him to think. My big brother is frightened out of his wits – which is some achievement, I grant them that – by what the machine can do. Mycroft's reputation is such that the Frenchman and the Russian came here to have a look. When they were about to convince my brother that he's going to be fooled and ridiculed out of his position, they were murdered. Which is of twofold benefit to the fraudsters, as it hardens my brother's opinion of the machine's real value. Are you still with me?"

"It _was_ a car accident. Scotland Yard…."

"Is clueless, as always. It's true, the Frenchman had a black-and-white dog, but it was much bigger than the one found in the car."

"Aha!"

"John, the collar. You've got eyes in your head, for what, to wink at pretty Ladies? The dog found in the car was too small. Lestrade let me have a look at it when nobody was around. The story that the animal jumped on the driver and caused the accident is just nonsense. A distraction, and not a very good one."

"So, let's say they _were_ murdered. It's still a wild goose chase. A time machine! Mycroft would never fall for such an outrageous fraud, he's too smart for that."

"My thoughts exactly, John. But then, he's never taken refuge to poison before, just to trick me into anything. Something is seriously wrong with my big brother, and I intent to find out what."

John cleared his throat. This did not just sound like concern. This truly _was_ concern. And as Sherlock usually wasn't concerned about anyone, especially not about his brother, the whole situation turned from idiotic to sinister in an instant. "You said this could cost Mycroft his career?"

"Something like that. If he became a gigantic laughing stock, he could not hold his position for long. At present, that's my best theory."

"So, where are we going? Why the charade of going to France?"

"I want to have a look at this wondrous machine, _without_ Mycroft. So, while he thinks we're on our way to France, we're actually going to visit the British version of Area 51."

John stared at Sherlock, gasping for air like a fish pulled ashore. "Please tell me you did not steal another of Mycroft's identity cards!"

"Of course I did. He'd given it to me anyway, why not take it now?"

"One of these days…." John gasped "One of these days, your frolics will cost me my army pension! This is Baskerville, all over again!"

"No, a place in East London. An abandoned industrial site from the late 19th century, with a derelict subterranean storeroom complex, at least that's what it looks like from the outside."

Holmes looked beastly proud of himself, and John gritted his teeth. He knew from experience that arguing against that level of self-satisfaction was useless. Best let it run its course. Fate usually had a banana skin in reserve for such occasions. After the slide it would be John's task to clean up the mess and to hold the hand of the (crest)fallen genius.

But for the moment, fate was a tame and fruitless monster.

Half an hour later, Sherlock got – whilst driving, which cost John Watson another year of his life – rid of his disguise, without which he felt much better. At least he said so, his relief visibly as big as his understanding for his shaking co-pilot was small.

After a surprisingly long, and at least for John's upset stomach and weakened constitution arduous, drive they reached the site in the late afternoon.

A cheap – and not just referring to the prices! – hotel nearby was only too happy to take them in for a night or two, albeit not before an extensive peep at Sherlock's skin-tight clothes as well as at John's noticeable calf-skin wallet – one of the few remains of his late marriage.

John hiccupped when he saw the amount of banknotes carelessly stuffed into his traditionally over-sized leather purse. How the hell could Sherlock lay his hand on _that_ kind of money, on a moment's notice?

Holmes, meanwhile, smiled at the bald little man behind the counter, a boyish and very sweet smile that made him appear utterly adorable as well as totally brain-dead.

Watson groaned inwardly. Why the hell did Sherlock _do_ this? He looked much younger than he was, _if_ he wanted to, and as John was visibly older _and_ the one with the overflowing wallet – well, it was obvious what people in a greasy little flee-bag would assume.

And, of course, the proprietor was no exception to the rule.

Naturally it was cash in advance and the two gentlemen don't mind sharing a double?

Uttered with the usual understanding twinkle in the landlord's eyes.

Angrily John snatched the bag out of Sherlock's hand. Sometimes he was _so_ sick of this! Come to think of 'being sick' - one look at the slimy, dust-crusted tables and John barked "_no, thank you_" when the question of in-house dinner came up.

When they climbed up the stairs Holmes laid his arm around John's waist, and this did it. "Let go!" John hissed dangerously, with a violent twist of his shoulder, and even Sherlock got the message.

Once safely inside their room, Sherlock therefore thought it best to lighten the mood a bit. "It is called 'Camouflage', John. I do not know if our valiant armed forces do still make that a part of their training?"

"No, it's called teasing, and as it is neither funny nor especially polite, I'm happy to say that it was _not_ part of my upbringing!"

"It may surprise a keen observer like you, Dr Watson, but most people see, and therefore remember, only what they expect to see. This man is used to see whores of both sexes coming to his premises for their business. The best interrogator could ask him if he has seen a young gentleman and a slightly older army surgeon, our landlord would deny it. And he wouldn't be lying, that's the best of it."

"Until he sees a picture of you or me."

"Wouldn't help, John. He did not see _me_, he saw a boy from the street, here today and gone tomorrow. And as to you, he did not see you either; he was too busy admiring your purse."

"Since when are you so very well versed in the science of hot-sheet hotels?"

"Don't ask, John. You do not want to hear the answer."

"Are you telling me, you …" John blushed - and cursed himself. No matter how often he made a vow to himself that Sherlock would never again unsettle him, he always failed the final test.

"Really, Captain Watson, I sometimes wonder if you're _too_ obsessed with this 'an officer and a gentleman-thing' of yours" Holmes said lightly, looking out of the window. He made such an effort to hide his triumph that it was all the more obvious.

"Oh, go to hell" John muttered, and retreated to the bathroom.

He tried to sulk for a punishment, but naturally it was no good.

As impatient as he was to get on with the case, Sherlock had to accept that a visit at the research site was not possible, even for him, at this time of day. Not without rousing suspicion. An official audit would never start at 18:00 h, all decent civil-servants longed for their homes or watering-holes at that hour, even those from MI-6.

Therefore the pacing was inevitable, the deep frown, the senseless self-torture of 'what-the-hell-do-people-want-to-have-spare-time-f or', and John had his task cut out for him.

A few well-phrased questions, and he had Sherlock talking about earlier cases, humiliating defeats for Scotland Yard and other heart-warming memories.

It took them through half the night.

For the other half, John would just grit his teeth and bear it.

At 10:00 o'clock sharp next morning, they both stood in front of the half-rotten gates that were part of the site's disguise, and Mycroft's card worked the usual miracle.

A very polite, extremely forthcoming CO went out of his way to please them. Apparently Mycroft had taken the liberty of already heralding his brother's investigation and the 'mix-up' of dates was easily talked away.

So it was Mr Holmes here and Captain Watson there, until they were in a store room with nothing in it but a conglomeration of metal and polymer pieces, welded together haphazardly into a construction of rare ugliness.

"This is it, Major?" John asked.

"This is the machine Mr Holmes has given into our care" the soldier said. "Mr _Mycroft _Holmes, I mean."

As Sherlock darted and crawled around and through the machine from second one, John felt obliged to make conversation before the nervous officer by his side crawled out of his already rippling skin.

"Does not look as if it belonged to Lord Darth Vader, does it" the surgeon offered for an entrée.

"I'm not acquainted with the gentleman, Sir" the CO retorted and he looked as if he expected a death sentence for that.

John closed his eyes briefly. "Never mind, Major. Do you know how it works? Is there a manual or something?"

"I never touch any piece of machinery in here, Captain Watson. We've got some very dangerous stuff here, and the scientists are …."

They both winced when suddenly a howl came from the machine. Lights blinked and some parts began to move. "Sherlock, perhaps you should not …."

The wall phone in the corner rang, hardly audible against the machine's increasing noise.

Grateful for a decent chance to inconspicuously distance himself from the infernal machine, the CO took the call and shouted to make himself heard "a lucky coincidence, Sir. Your brother is already on his way here!"

"John, quick. We must be through with this before Mycroft arrives."

"Sherlock, what for heaven's sake do you think you're doing!"

"Show this machine to Mycroft for what it is – a simple toy." Holmes took the one of two seats in the centre of the thing which looked even more like a Picasso nightmare that had quite accidentally made it into the real world. "This is actually quite comfortable, John. Come on, there's another seat!"

"If you think I'll enter this howling madhouse, think again!"

Meanwhile the noise level had reached an almost unbearable peak. John shouted his heart out to make himself heard. Yet, even so, Mycroft's enraged voice was clearly audible when he raced into the hall. "Sherlock Holmes, GET OUT OF THERE, _**at once**_!"

Watson turned, had one good look at Mycroft's face, and changed his mind.

With one big jump the doctor made it to Sherlock's side, and did his best to pull his friend away from what apparently was the cockpit of the machine.

Sherlock struggled, laughing excitedly. He was thoroughly enjoying himself, and as always he gave a shit for all the others' discontent.

For one thing was certain, the British Government was _not_ amused!

The Major shouted something unintelligible, and left the hall.

Mycroft, with a face like hell breaking lose, approached the machine.

A split second later John noticed that Mycroft's features became blurred. A shimmer of light, a cloud or whatever it was, emerged from the machine, spreading out, creating a bubble around the three men.

"Sherlock, leave the machine alone!"

"Why? This is ingenious. The trouble they've taken to make this look real. Now what is …." and Sherlock pressed another button on the control panel, a joystick lit up in pretty pink and light green colours, and sure enough, the younger Holmes could not resist. He took the joystick and pulled, hard to port.

John's world descended in a cacophony of lights and sounds. The last thing he saw was Mycroft's shocked face, screaming at him. The next moment he and Sherlock were engulfed by white lightening, and all was gone.

It might have been an eternity or a mere minute before the machine – funny, he had not noticed that it had risen off the ground – landed hard on the solid ground.

"Well, that was fun!" Sherlock stated, rubbing his leg.

Somehow, he did not sound as if it was.

John, for his part, knew that he had _not_ enjoyed himself.

This was idiotic.

And where was everybody?

The hall around them was as empty as before, as dusty as before, but it was now totally deserted except for him and Sherlock. And the machine, of course.

"Let's get out of here, Sherlock. Mycroft should have seen enough. I guess that's why he's gone. You got him this time."

"I do not think so!"

"Of course you did. I say we go, find your elder brother, and gloat a little. Come on."

Sherlock didn't budge. "You should be glad, John. Hilarious, actually."

"What _are_ you talking about?"

"You always wanted to be there when I'm wrong, totally and completely and foolishly wrong."

"What the hell …."

"For I have been _wrong_, John. Congratulations."

Watson sighed, climbed out of the machine, walked to the exit, and opened the door.

In front of him stood a virtual ox of a man, a thick leather apron over a bare chest, his arms and neck covered in coal dust, his mighty moustache dancing up and down, in his hands an oversized pipe-wrench.

"Got 'em boys" the savage yelled with the broadest cockney-accent imaginable "'ve 'ome to take our stuff, damn rats!" and behind him a herd of equally uncivilized and displeased men growled. It was as threatening a sound as it was a sight against a background of rolling, thundering machinery inside a factory in full career. Fires and sparks casted a hellish shadow over the scene.

John acted on instinct, he banged the door shut and bolted it.

He searched for his weapon and remembered that it had been taken from him at the entrance of the army base.

Even his jack-knife was kept for him at the porter's lodge.

The door shook in its strong hinges when the concentrated power of muscles and wrath attacked it.

It would not withstand much longer.

"Sherlock, for pity's sake, come _here_!"

"We do not stand a chance, John. Should be fifty men or more outside."

"How the hell would you know?"

"Did you not hear it? I did, the second the machine went dead. This sound could not come from a 21th century army lab."

John controlled his breathing, as he had once been trained to do. Keep a clear head, keep in control of yourself. "We must get out of here!" Everything else would have to wait until the immediate danger had passed.

"There is only the one door!" Sherlock's voice was flat, devoid of all emotion. He sat inside the machine as if he had not a care in this world.

Watson gave up. If His Lordship wouldn't budge, his obedient associate would have to do it for him.

"Sherlock, these men are after our skins…." he said as he ran back to the machine. "I've no idea where they came from, but…."

"Where _they_ come from is obvious, John. _When_ we came from, that's the important question."

"I'm not interested in a grammar lesson" John said, with a nervous look at the shaking door. It was massive, yes, but not _that_ massive.

Sherlock, a disconcertingly pale and frightful Sherlock, tapped his finger on a scale display in front of him.

John groaned, but looked at the display.

His mind thought two things at once. That this impossibility was the only possible explanation. And that this explanation was utterly impossible.

Day: 9th of March.

Time: 11:00 h.

Year: 1898.

"Oh my God" breathed John. "Oh my…."

"I think he's not in charge of this" Sherlock said "but, as I'm clueless of what to do now ….."

"You do not …. oh no, Sherlock Holmes, not this time. This has been a ruse from the start, it is one of your sick Holmes brothers' jokes…. I'm not buying it. Get us out of here, _n__ow_!"

"I can't."

"What do you mean, you can't."

"Just that. I can't."

"Sherlock, I'm not …. damn you, you idiot, I'm _not_ laughing."

"You're welcome to give the machine a try."

John gawked at Sherlock who returned the stare unruffled.

In their back, the rattling and rumbling of the door reached a crescendo.

Holmes was almost pushed out of his seat when John jumped into the machine's cockpit, and hammered his fists on all the buttons he could see, pulled at the joystick, kicked the control panel and tried the buttons and switches again and again and again.

Nothing.

No sound, no light, no buzz. No nothing.

"Sherlock, this is a disaster."

"I couldn't agree more."

Watson rested his head against the cool metal of the machine.

They both just stayed as they were, until the door gave way.

"Banana" was the last word John said before the enraged mob pounced on them.


	4. Auld Lang Syne

**4 Auld Lang Syne**

"I'm tellin' ya, them're bloody filchers! They're after our new stuff, that's whats they are." The factory's gaffer felt no inclination to see his catch belittled by a young smooth-faced gobshite; even if this gobshite was a police constable

"This is for the magistrate to confirm" the copper said sternly, withdrawing a little from the angry man. His smart and shiny uniform made a striking contrast to the gaffer's greasy appearance, and his face showed a strong intention to keep it just like that. "You have an obligation to give evidence if and when you're required to do so."

"Magistrate my arse" the gaffer began whilst he made an aggressive step forward, but his buddies kept him in check only just in time before he earned himself a spell in a police dungeon for his civic endeavour.

However, the constable found it was high time to reach greener pasture with his new charge. "Get on, you two. Move."

Sherlock obliged at once, and John had no objections either. The two-horse Black Maria outside the factory gates, sorry sight that it was, did not bode worse a fate than the workmen's rough fists and misgiving faces gave notice of.

John was not of his most lucid mind but even so he found time to marvel at Sherlock's tameness. He had seen the great man (if of a somewhat self-styled greatness at times) in a fascinating variety of moods: Hilarious, triumphant, gloomy, bored to death, sad, angry, unbearably arrogant or merry like a child – but not before this gruesome day had dawned on them Sherlock Holmes had acted like a mortal man out of his depth; demure, complaisant and polite.

And all that towards the lowest of the low – the staff of the London Metropolitan Police.

It was only natural that so unnatural a state of mind should be short-lived.

In this case, it lasted about ten minutes. Which was, as it happened, exactly the time it took to go from the factory to the nearest police station in an extended trot.

Still with their hands cuffed in front of their bellies, they were shoved into an office, where the interrogation should begin. A young yet puffed up police sergeant took the seat behind the desk while the constable withdrew to a corner. Nobody thought of giving him a chair.

Holmes ignored the coppers totally, took himself a chair, and sat down without asking anyone's leave. "If this is meant to be a lark" he told Watson amiably, but with a touch of ice to his tone, "I should like to inform you that I am not amused."

"Sherlock…." John said warningly, as he saw dark clouds gather on the police-officer's brow, but Holmes just shrugged nonchalantly.

"Your names!" the officer barked.

"Doctor John Hamish Watson and Sherlock de Renauld Al-Aziz" Holmes returned at once, if a trifle dismissively.

The officer frowned, deep and deeper, but suddenly his forehead straightened up. "Shylock" he said. "Well, well. You're a Jew!" and he looked extremely pleased. Apparently that explained it all, including the incredible fact that these two men, clad in so far unseen clothes, had entered a locked room without anyone seeing them, together with a huge machine nobody in the factory had ever set eyes upon and which was by far too bulky to ever have come through the room's only door.

But, of course, if one of these men was a Jew…

"With all due respect to your extensive knowledge of the Shakespearean oeuvre" Sherlock said kindly "but I'm an atheist. Please do not tell my family, they'd stone me to death if they knew! It would _so_ disturb Lord Salisbury's plans for my far away kingdom."

The officer's face fell again and it was, perhaps, forgivable under the circumstances that John answered a bit absent-mindedly when he was harshly required to give their address. "Baker Street" he said. "221B" and the policeman marked it down most dutifully. He looked pleased with himself again. As if he had actually made some progress.

John closed his eyes. He felt like fainting, if only it would discharge him from this absurd situation.

"Mrs Hudson, the landlady, does not know us yet" Sherlock added courteously, and John's eyes snapped open in baffled surprise, especially as Holmes continued "our rooms were booked for us in advance, but from abroad. Captain Watson and I arrived only today, from Afghanistan."

"_Captain_ Watson?" the copper asked back, with a first, tiny crack in his supercilious façade. As Sherlock had wanted him to be, the young man was confused by three circumstances: Sherlock's upper-class accent, his, in all politeness, presumptuous high-quality manners and John's military title.

"You see, my good man" Sherlock drove his advantage home "Captain Watson…. as a medical man, he has been assigned to me by your Foreign Office … to guide my first steps in your beautiful country….as well as to watch over my unfortunately fragile health." He cocked a brow, smiled knowingly, with his best version of what John habitually called 'the face'. This face that told anyone they were supposed to perfectly know what Sherlock was talking about and that between men of the world with only half a brain no further discourse was necessary.

It worked a treat.

First, because the combination of a foreign name, an Oxford accent, Afghan origin plus a ranking British Army officer detached by the Whitehall mandarins meant only one thing to the harassed police sergeant in the very beginning of his career: _Hands off_!

Second, because John, much belatedly, figured out what his friend was trying to do.

"You can easily ascertain that Mrs Hudson at 221B Baker Street takes in gentlemen lodgers" Sherlock concluded with an indulgent smile. "If she does – well, you have got all the evidence you need."

"Needless to say" John seconded in his best command voice "that you will forget our names, and address, at once. Her Majesty's government is entitled to _some_ tact and discretion from its police service." With that, he held his hands up in a clear demand to have them freed.

"I will talk to my superiors…." the officer said, utterly baffled by the unexpected turn of events.

"No, sergeant, you will _not_" John stated, with an angry frown he had learned from Sherlock. The '_I-do-not-believe-I'm-stuck-with-such-outrageous-st upidity_' frown with which both Holmes brothers tortured their fellow humans on a daily basis. "You will let us _go_, and you will do so _now_!"

"Why should I do that?" the sergeant plucked up courage.

"Because I'm going to talk to _my _superiors and then you won't molest His Highness, or anybody else for that matter, ever again."

"Oh, it's His Highness now, isn't it!"

"Your men saw the machine, in the factory" John stated, and it was neither a question nor polite.

"What has that…."

"Sergeant this machine is part of a top secret government operation of vital importance. You are presently interfering with this operation and none of your superiors will thank you for that. Did I make myself clear?"

The sergeant looked from John's authoritative features to Sherlock's bodhisattva face, and back again. Then he took out the keys, released the handcuffs and cleared his throat nervously. "I couldn't know that, Sir" he said. "There are so many foreigners in London these days…. of all possible station in life ….."

"I'm sure Prince Al-Aziz will not hold it against you when he's to meet the Foreign Secretary" John retorted haughtily, turned on his heel in perfect military style, and opened the door for Sherlock with a very courtly bow. "Your Highness." In sharp contrast to that, John dashed his last words to the copper over his shoulder. "Carry on, sergeant!"

Once outside the police station, Sherlock called for a cab immediately, however none did stop until he took a big banknote and waved with it. The sight softened the scare the funny guys in the funny clothes had so far given the cabbies; a minute and a generous advance payment later, they were on their way.

John was trembling, he was cold, exhausted and his inside hurt like hell. He did not relax until they were three streets away from the place of doom.

Alas, his relief was short lived. "For God's sake, Sherlock. How did we come by this money?"

Holmes pulled a worn but apparently well filled wallet out of his jacket. "Should keep us for a few days" he said.

"How did you….?"

"Pinched it" Holmes said happily. "From a coat on the police station's wardrobe. Fur coat actually, unaffordable by a policeman's salary. Belongs to one of the criminals then. Obvious!"

"Obvious what?" John asked with an even greater sickness in his guts.

"It means" sherlock sighed in frustration, "Lots of money for us and no chance for the robbed man to convince anyone that the thief's a copper."

"Good work" John replied chokingly.

"I return the compliment" Sherlock said with no sense of guilt or of the other's irony. "This soldier show of yours – never ceases to amaze me."

Watson buried his face in his hands and moaned.

"John, I think, this might be fun after all."

"Fun?" Watson shrieked, incredulously. "You think this … what are you …. _FUN_?"

"Think about the possibilities, John. The late 19th and early 20th century was a time of first class crime, political hazard games, secret service plots and intrigues…"

"The only possibility I want to think about is a possibility to go back to our own time."

"Actually, we have to move forward in time, not back" corrected Sherlock.

"What the hell does it matter? Presently, how past time ever this presence may be, the machine is not going anywhere, or anywhen. It's as dead as mutton."

Holmes' fingers formed a pyramid in front of his face, he rested his chin on his two thumbs, and kept silent for the rest of the journey, no matter what John said or did.

The trip from the city's (future derelict) factory sites to the inner centre of the big town had been no fun at all inside a motor car. In an old, neglected carriage, it was pure torment. John felt the consequences of the ordeal he'd asked of his weakened body, as the horses clapped on and on, and the badly sprung vehicle bounced this way or that for an eternity.

When the cab finally stopped and he dragged his weary carcass out of its shabby seats, Watson was beyond caring where they were, what they were about to do or in whose gutter and because of what unspeakable plague he'd breathe his last.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was all bright eyed and bushy tailed, quite in his element. Energetically he jumped out of the carriage and knocked at the door of a house which in more than hundred years would be as old-fashioned and comfy as it was now dernier cri and fashionable, at least if one considered that this was not the Mayfair part of Westminster.

"Yes?" the sturdy middle-aged woman with the strict bun and the equally unamusing apron said who stood in the doorframe.

"Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock said winningly.

"Yes" she confirmed in a punitive tone. "And who are you in your funny clothes?"

That was the moment in which John's knees gave in. Together with more or less anything else.


	5. Settling in and hating it

**5 Settling in, and hating it**

"John?"

Watson briefly contemplated answering, but he decided against it. To be sure, that sounded a bit like Sherlock Holmes, but then, it couldn't be him. Too anxious, too contrite and by far too wary for the world's only Consulting Detective.

"John? Can you hear me? John!"

The insolent jerk shook Watson's upper body so violently that the doctor's head made painful contact with the ground. John was sure that that was a step over the mark. Besides, it worsened his nausea, which couldn't be allowed.

"Let go, you idiot" he said indignantly. "course I hear you. I'm not deaf."

A relieved sigh, a soft chuckle, and a gentle push against John's left shoulder. "I thought I'd lost you."

"I wish you had" Watson muttered. "Who are you?"

Wrong question!

The horrible shaking was back with increased ferocity.

"Ouch! Get off me!"

"Open your eyes, John Watson! _Look_ at me!"

In perfectly justified fear for his physical cohesion, John opened his eyes although the light hurt him.

The idiot was waving his hand in front of Watson's face. "How many fingers, John?"

"What?"

"How many fingers? C'me on."

"If you held that hand still for a second" John said very reasonably, "I could count them!"

The hand was suspended in mid-air, and Watson concentrated. Which wasn't easy, mind, as the room was spinning. Or was it his head?

"Who cares about your damn fingers anyway" John said, and closed his eyes. Yes, that was it, better, much better. Peace, no spinning, tranquillity.

Until the annoying voice was back. Although it was gentler now. Almost distraught. "What's wrong, John?"

"Wrong, wrong" John muttered sleepily. "Everything is wrong!"

And it was, as he registered only now.

Everything _was_ wrong.

The sound of hooves clapping on the street outside, the appalling smell of far too many coal fires, the stubborn feeling that John Watson was not in very good fettle – and this strange voice that was Sherlock's but couldn't be.

"Sorry. Forgive me, John." There it was again, the remorseful tone that was so utterly out of place in the supercilious baritone. "I wasn't thinking. This was unnecessarily dramatic. After all you're still an invalid."

Yep. That _was_ Sherlock, and no mistake.

"I am _not_ an invalid" Watson retorted, and planned to draw himself up quite proudly.

The misguided attempt resulted in Sherlock holding bucket and head in the right position for emptying an already empty stomach even further.

When the bout of sickness was over, John fell back to whatever it was he was lying on. "Oh God." He was panting for dear life. "I fainted. I don't faint, I'm a doctor. Others faint, not me."

"Even army doctors are supposed to be human" Sherlock said with a rueful smile. John could no longer think that it was anyone else; the face was unchanged, although the voice was still strange. Sherlock sounded ….. unsettled.

"Is your friend very sick?" a female voice said, and the woman emerged from some invisible corner behind Sherlock's back.

"He's much better" Holmes answered warm-heartedly. He rose from his knees, took her hand and kissed it, with an intense and soulful stare into her colourless eyes. "I am, indeed my whole family is, forever in your debt, Madam. You are most kind."

John watched the scene with weary eyes and supressed the urge to pinch himself, to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

"About the flat, Madam" Sherlock continued hesitatingly. His eyes were lowered now, his dark lashes fluttered on his pale skin.

"Say no more about it, some bureaucrat made a mistake, that's not so very unusual, is it" she answered, blushing like a young girl.

"Thank you" said Sherlock, and he took the keys from her shaking fingers.

He had to help Watson up the stairs, and he had to support his friend when they first set eyes on the flat that had been theirs for more than two years, until Sherlock's faked 'death'. And it had been theirs since Sherlock's return from the great unknown.

Only that it, of course, was not the same flat.

All right, it was the same suite of rooms, in the same house, with the same address, and a landlady by the name of Mrs Hudson, but there it ended.

The wallpaper, the carpet, the furniture – everything acted as a painful reminder that this was not a homecoming, but an exile.

John limped to the sofa, and lay down. He felt like an old man close to his grave. And still, there was some curiosity left in the dying cat. "Mrs Hudson. 221B Baker Street. How on earth did you know that, Sherlock?"

"Sometimes I love to surprise you" Sherlock retorted whilst inspecting their new quarters with some enthusiasm.

"Sherlock? In a nutshell, please. This is not my very best of days."

Holmes turned and looked Watson over, furtively, but not furtively enough. John saw the concern in the other's face, and it did nothing to calm him down. He had an idea of how he must look to bring such pity on the face of Sherlock Holmes, of all men.

"221B Baker Street is a Hudson family heirloom" Sherlock meanwhile said, as conversationally as possible "_our_ Mrs Hudson inherited it on her husband's death, together with a family chronicle. She read it, and it confirmed her belief in his family's inbred stuffiness."

"She told you that?"

"Before your time, when I asked her if she wanted her husband alive and in prison or dead on the scaffold. I liked her, well, kind of, and so I thought I'd leave the decision to her."

John forgot his sickness and dizziness, all at once. "You _what_?"

"Her husband did not treat her well, if you follow my drift. He did the same to a girl in America, and she died. Mrs Hudson, _our_ Mrs Hudson that is, came to me and asked for help. I found out that her husband was guilty as charged, but naturally I could have kept a few details to myself, had she so wished."

"But she did not?"

"No, fortunately she did not. I was quite a success, back then, in the States." Sherlock grinned in reminiscence of his old glory, and began to search the kitchen larder for something edible. When he found nothing, he muttered something quite naughty to himself and returned to the living room.

There he suddenly sniffed the air, and his eyes glittered.

"No!" John said when he also identified the unmistakable aroma of time-honoured tobacco residue.

"Why not, this is another time, I could…"

"_NO_!"

Sherlock shrugged and continued to inspect the rooms. He still looked like a child beneath the Christmas tree. Peter Pan and the really, really big adventure.

"What lies did you tell this poor woman?" John asked with as much sternness as he could presently muster.

"I never lied to our Mrs Hudson" Sherlock said indignantly.

"It is _this_ Mrs Hudson I'm talking about" John snarled.

"Oh, nothing too creative. I stuck to the truth as far as possible."

"And the truth of the day is which one?"

Sherlock grinned, obviously delighted. "That I'm from Shropshire, that you are my physician and friend, that you are supposed to look after me by my elder brother's command, who happens to be a bigwig in the Foreign Office. And that we were forced, on this same brother's behalf, to lie to the coppers. Confessed the whole 'I-am-a-foreign-prince' story to her. She laughed her head off."

"I could not for the life of me know why" John said drily.

"But you should. You know me and my life's story by heart."

"Do I?"

"Yes, you do. So would you please pay attention? My mother was half British, half French."

"Was she?"

"She was. Francine Beaumont-Holmes. Mycroft called her Franky until he turned 18. After that he called her Mommy."

"You know, Sherlock, in most families it would have been the other way round."

"Well, we aren't most families, are we."

"Indeed not. That much is certain."

"She met my father at a party at the French embassy, fell in love with his house and money, for the use of which she paid by having two sons by her husband Mortimer…."

"Your father's name is Mortimer Holmes?"

"Mortimer Richard Sheridan Holmes, indeed. No need to memorize it, he's dead now and he didn't spent much time at home before, either. Man was a jerk, most guys in diplomatic service are, I presume."

"I'm sure you're the world's leading expert, Sherlock."

"I'm Mycroft's younger brother. If that doesn't make me an expert, what does? Anyway, as I said, Franky had two sons, Malcolm and Sherlock, so….."

"Malcolm?"

"Yes, Malcolm Angus Holmes, he's the family's representative in the Foreign Office of 1898. It's one of our family traditions, we all go to Eton, Oxford or Cambridge, and we all work in or for the Foreign Office. Great great grandfather Malcolm was there, his eldest son was there, my father was there, and now – isn't it peculiar to use the word 'now' for a distant future, what do you think, John? – it's Mycroft's turn."

John's head had long since begun swimming again. With his eyes firmly shut to the cruel world he snuggled down in the soft, furry cover of the sofa. Here he was, a grown-up man, a soldier, a fully qualified army surgeon with considerable combat experience, but when he listened to his best friend's family history, he was in dire need of a cuddly blanket's velvet comfort.

"And this guy Malcolm" John said weakly "does have a brother named Sherlock?"

The Detective rolled his eyes. "No, of course not. Mommy had a peculiar taste in names. Besides, gaffer Malcolm was an only child. It's written down to all eternity in the Holmes Family tree, a document of doubtable historical value, but of the greatest personal importance to my brother Mycroft. He read to me from it when I was too small to run away. Any questions?"

"Yes, Sherlock, one. Just one. We've been sharing this flat, or what will become this flat when it becomes our flat…"

"My thoughts exactly, John. We must have a whole new grammar for our English language, now that we've developed time travel."

John shook his head, what was a bad idea considering how it stirred up the dull pain behind his eyes. "Sherlock, leave the grammar alone, will you? Please. What I'm trying to say – you and I have been together for years …."

"Been together as friends, you always insist on that!"

"As friends, yes Sherlock that's right. In all these years you never said anything about your family; if Mycroft had not introduced himself, I'm sure I'd never even heard of your big brother. But to this woman, a complete stranger, you spill all your beans?"

"She can't meet my family, can she? Besides, we need the cover."

"The what?"

"The cover, John." Sherlock wandered to the window next to John, lifted the curtain a bit and pointed at something or someone outside. "Our friend the police sergeant has found the only possible solution for his predicament. He let us go, but not off the hook. We're under surveillance as we speak, and if that nice young gentleman over there will bombard our new landlady with questions, what do you think she will say?"

"That you have sworn her to secrecy, no doubt."

"Yes, and by the Foreign Office's order. That's the starter. Then my life story for a main course, and my big wig important relations for dessert, or vice versa. She's as proud as a peacock of having such fascinating tenants."

"What good would that do? This Malcolm fellow doesn't know you."

Sherlock shrugged with a happy smile. "He doesn't have to, that's the charm and the elegance of it. First of all, he's important, as I said. Our police friends will check up on him for proof of his existence; once they've got that, they wouldn't dream of making an appointment with him."

"But if they do…"

"John, leave the time-honoured bureaucratic idiocy to me, will you? Even if they did, they would tell Malcolm that someone is posing first as an Afghan Prince, then as his brother, under the pretence that he's a spy working for Malcolm Holmes. As Malcolm knows that to be a lie, he suspects his evil colleagues of a conspiracy to ruin his career. He will not waste time on _me__;_ he'll use all his considerable resources to find out about the enemy within."

"Who does not exist" John stated.

"Oh pretty innocence" Sherlock groaned. "Of course he exists. Everybody is working against everybody in Whitehall, what other explanation is there for the shambles of our foreign policy. So Malcolm does have a whole bunch of hostile comrades. Every single one of them will think either Malcolm is whipping up a conspiracy or one of the others is. It'll keep them busy inside their stately offices for years to come; they don't have time to talk to the likes of us."

"Mycroft once told me" Watson said "that founding the Diogene's Club with an imperative of silence was necessary so that a lot of politicians and Whitehall Mandarins could sit around the same tea trolley and survive."

"See?" Sherlock beamed. "I knew you'd understand eventually."

John pulled his cuddly blanket closer. God knew, he needed it more than he'd ever needed it in Afghanistan. Strengthened by its soothing presence, he forced himself to think of the more obvious question at hand. "Sherlock, what are we to do? We _must_ go back. We cannot stay. This is a barbaric, uncivilized time…."

"Shame on you, Captain John Hamish Watson from the Fifth Fusiliers. This is the British Empire's Golden Age."

"The Renaissance was a Golden Age for Britain too. Yet I much favour reading Shakespeare over _being_ Shakespeare. We are ages away from the invention of antibiotics, hygiene is in its infancy, so is surgery. What if the authorities call your bluff after all, what if one of us falls sick, seriously ill…. Sherlock, for pity's sake, we _cannot_ stay."

"It's funny" Sherlock murmured. "I once liked to think I'd be better off in the Victorian Age. Less mainstream, more indulgence for …. originality. I've never been like other people."

John closed his eyes when a sharp pain shot through his abdomen. Whenever Sherlock, aloof, distanced Sherlock Holmes, lowered the barriers that shut off his inside from the outside world, the revelation of vulnerability made Watson's left side ache. "Perhaps a gentleman can do as he pleases, here and now" he said sharply. "But whoever and whatever the Holmes brothers might be in the 21th century, by the standards of _this_ time we are less than beggars in the street as soon as the money you stole runs out. What then?"

"Who says I cannot work here? As I said, there are lots of unsolved crimes, as well as a police force continuously out of their depths. Who knows, I might invent something. Fingerprints, for example, or the analysis of tobacco ashes. How's that for immortality?" In the centre of the room, bathed in sudden sunlight from the windows, Sherlock, with his arms akimbo, smiled enraptured at his own face in the mirror.

John was scared stiff by what he saw and heard. "You can't be serious. You're kidding me."

"Sorry, John, but there's no other option. I have no clue whatsoever as to how to repair that machine. We must leave it where it is, and how it is, until we find someone who can repair it."

"You're serious. You really think we can stay here and work as Private Detectives? You're nuts."

"Consulting Detective, John. The money should keep us a week or so, and then I can easily steal some more. If it is necessary; there are bank robberies all the time, or swindles or such like. In a few days, I'll visit our hapless friends at Scotland Yard, and tell them what their present cases are about. The papers should give me more than enough information about the criminal classes' activities, for a start."

"Shouldn't we lie low? To avoid Whitehall's attention?"

"There's no money in lying low" Sherlock replied light heartedly. "As to the Foreign Office, I'll think of something if and when the necessity arises. For now, the most important thing is: I – _we__,_ that is – need someone who is going to make us famous. A blogger."

"A hundred years before the www?" John said, baffled. How could complete insanity sound so completely sane?

"An author, if you prefer the word. Some scribbler, who does the job you have done before I jumped off the roof."

"What for?"

"Did you not tell me that your blog was my livelihood, much more than my own website? Naturally, we would need someone who's distinguished in the present world, and well versed in today's style and mannerisms. But not too full of himself, mind you. A gentleman of some literary standing, whom we can make our poete laureate."

"Sherlock, would you help me? I'm not – oh God."

After half an hour of Sherlock's misguided nursing attempts, as well as several glasses of water, John had recovered enough to curl up under his blanket again. He still had some hallucinations, though. He imagined, for example, the touch of Holmes' hand on his brow. Ridiculous idea!

"You know what?" Sherlock said "We make him a doctor, our new author friend. Someone for you to talk to, about today's medicine or so. What do you think?"

"You do that, Sherlock" John said weakly. "You do that. Just leave me alone."

For some unknown reason or the other, Sherlock did not take that very well. "I _will_ fix this, John, I promise" he said, much more obnoxious, much more heated than John's soft request had merited. "I _will_ get his attention, and if he's anything like his descendant at all, he'll know what to do."

Watson had half a heart to ask his friend if he was still talking about the idée fixe of a ghost-writer for some future crime stories in the Victorian past. But before he could do so, the doctor fell asleep.


	6. A Royal Enjoyment

**6 A Royal Enjoyment  
**

Watson scrutinized his image in the mirror with bad feelings.

He had lost weight during the three weeks of a slow and partly unsatisfying recovery. As he had not been fat to begin with, he looked like a ghost: Haggard, pale and with a haunted look to his eyes with the big dark shadows underneath.

And these clothes.

White shirt – all right, why not. But the suit's big Vichy square seemed to overwhelm him, as if he could get lost inside his own jacket any moment. The brownish colour reminded him of some swamp he'd rather avoid.

The pants were bulky and with this hilarious watch chain across his belly he looked the perfect persiflage of his great grandfather. The tie was choking him, the shoes were too tight, the socks were itchy and far too thick. It was only April, summer was a long way coming, and already the whole damn woollen attire was a piece of torture equipment. And as to the feeling of the bulky underwear, made of sheep's wool too, that pinched and crumpled in every place it had been stuffed into or under the shirt and pants …

Wistfully John remembered his comfortable cotton shirt, jeans and socks, the familiar trainers, the much beloved leather jacket. All carelessly stuffed into a bag, ready to be disposed of. And with the resident tailor's most disgusted expression, no less.

As had often happened to him since their unlucky journey, John could not restrain his feelings. With trembling fingers he virtually ripped the hateful clothes off his body. It was by sheer luck alone that nothing was damaged. "Sherlock, I won't" he exclaimed, like a child that has been offered the wrong dolly.

This cry for help resulted in a soft yet insistent murmur outside of the fitting room, and in came the tailor, the strained face barely hidden behind an artificial smile. "Your ….. friend suggests we might try the uniform first, doctor. I understand, this must be awkward for you, after all these years abroad, I understand. And may I say that I envy you, no Sir, no flattering, I really do. All these adventures, all these crazy foreigners you must have seen…"

"It was their country, _I_ was the foreigner" John snapped back. The man drove him mad with his constant blabbering. "From where the Pashtuns are standing, we foreigners _do_ look rather queer."

And there it was again, the little twitch in the other man's face, the little painful but almost invisible irritation. Watson met this expression almost everywhere he went, and with almost everything he said.

It was idiotic, this was Britain, the country he loved fiercely enough to risk his life for it, again and again, but here he was, an alien from outer space, in an ill-fitted suit.

Besides, there was this 'friend thing, or, more important, the little, tale-telling pause before the word. One should have thought that, coming to the year 1898, one was spared the general assumption that he and Sherlock were lovers. Which John resented not because he was stuffy or old fashioned, yet because IT WAS NOT TRUE!

But, au contraire, it was worse than ever.

The raised brow, the malicious smile…. it had been annoying enough in the 21st century, when everyone had gone out of their way to prove how very tolerant they were. In 1898, when most people expressed nothing but disdain by the same means, it was intolerable.

Therefore John's next words were barked out, and in his best barrack's tone: "I've missed the joke, care to let me in on it?"

The tailor retreated with widened eyes, he virtually fled the fitting room, and Sherlock stuck his head into the fitting room, albeit most cautiously. "Are you all right, John?"

"Of course I am all right. For heaven's sake, rid me of the idiot, will you?"

"With pleasure, John."

The curtain was drawn discreetly, murmur-murmur-murmur, and then Sherlock appeared with a whole set of a British Fifth Fusiliers' uniform, complete with socks and underwear, as if he had robbed an army depot just five minutes ago.

"What the hell should I want with a uniform?" John shouted angrily.

"There are your regimental dinners, on occasions, and some other events you might wish to attend" Sherlock answered patiently, but with clenched jaws.

"What the …. there are no regimental dinners, what are you …"

It was Sherlock's warning stare that made Watson stop in mid-sentence. There _were _regimental dinners, not in 2013 perhaps, but in 1898, they could hardly be avoided. Not if one had been discharged honourably. Which was something a man in John's position, with every interest in a discreet and inconspicuous existence, would want anyone to know and respect.

_Of course_ he had been discharged honourably. Anything else was unthinkable.

Under different circumstances it might have been funny. At Captain Dr John Hamish Watson's retirement, a handful of seasoned, ranking officers had considered it an honour to shake his hand, as they owed the doctor a debt of gratitude due to one booboo or another. What a lark to think that the whole bunch of grey haired, time-honoured gentlemen were not even born yet.

"I'm sorry Sherlock. I'm such a fusspot, I don't know what came over me…" To add insult to injury, John felt tears sting in his eyes. _Damn_ these fucking mood-swings he could neither explain nor control. Damn, damn, _damn _this whole fucking, unbelievable, unbearable situation.

"Forget it" Holmes answered curtly, and obviously considered the matter closed.

"_How dare he_" John took offense. This was all Sherlock's fault. And look at the man. Dressed to the nines in a black suit, black tie and these fancy shoes. A picture of a late 19th century beau. The way he looked, he'd be admitted into every posh society house in London, at a moment's notice! Mr Sherlock Holmes, Esquire! And, oh, wait, yes, his somewhat less impressive companion.

A hot wave of many feelings combined, and none of them any good, sprang into existence somewhere between Watson's shoulder blades, made its way up his neck, washed over his face, and vanished, leaving nothing but two angry red spots on his otherwise yellowish cheeks. "Sherlock, I would like to go home now! I'm not feeling well."

"John, you need these clothes…"

"I _said_, I am not feeling well!"

Somewhat later, back in their flat, John moaned, limped to the sofa, and lay down, slowly and laboriously. In an unconscious, yet nonetheless very melodramatic gesture, he covered his eyes with his arm.

"Get up, John" ordered Sherlock sharply. "You are not to sleep, it's broad daylight."

"Leave me alone" John muttered faintly.

"No. Get up, now!"

Watson's temper flared up in an instant. "Get lost, damn you. I'm a sick man, but naturally that means nothing to you."

"The after effects of the poison have worn off weeks ago, _Dr_ Watson. You're unhappy, you're worried but there it ends. You're as healthy as a fish in the water. Pull yourself together!"

"That's just like you, Sherlock Holmes. Who was the one on the couch, for ages and ages, whimpering about being bored, or not well appreciated, or I don't know what PETTY complaint you were imagining. But, of course, ho-ho, if it's me who's ill, that's another cup of tea. Not your cup of tea, actually, you selfish…..

"SHUT UP, John!"

"Do not want to hear that, hmh? Too high and mighty for it, are we?" John jumped to his feet, he was trembling with rage, yet at the same time he was shaking from cold. Aghast, he listened to himself, terrified by his feverish rambling, but helpless in the grip of an unknown wish to strike and hurt, whatever the cost. His head was light, and a bit dizzy, colours were glaring, and the strange buzzing in his ears grew louder and louder.

"For God's sake, Watson, STOP it!"

"You have no idea how ill I am….how I feel….." John said. The strange rush of wrathful energy left him and he stammered like an unhappy boy.

He didn't resist when his friend pressed him down, back on the sofa. "There's the rub" Sherlock said calmly whilst he too sat down. "Nobody you can trust, no certainties left, and nothing to rely on. You do not belong here, but you have no place to run. It's called Ontological Insecurity. Can be a bastard."

"Are you a doctor now?" John muttered. He felt he had made a complete asshole of himself.

"I should remember this one. I hated every minute of it."

"What?" John asked uncomprehendingly.

"As a boy I thought that all would be well as long as I'm the best of the best. I had just to be clever, and they would adore me. But when I left my home, I saw that it was just the other way round. That's what Ontological Insecurity is about: You trust in some fundamental truths about the world and your life, and suddenly these truths, and your trust in them, are shattered beyond repair."

"You could have your Asperger's treated" John said, trying to hold on to his anger in sheer self-defence. "But naturally you never even thought of adapting to others."

"I could kill myself in an attempt to adapt, and it would still be in vain. Most people aren't cut out for that."

"I thought I was strong enough for anything" Watson said without thinking. Holmes' words touched him to the quick. Perhaps because Sherlock wasn't supposed to talk like that. Perhaps because what he said made perfect sense.

"It has nothing to do with strength or weakness" Holmes went on. "It's a question of being a people's person by nature, like you, or a solitary island, like me. People come to me, but when they've got what they wanted, they're glad to leave me behind."

"Is that how you feel? That I am leaving you behind? From where I stand, it's just the other way round."

"All I'm saying is, you must adapt to the situation. I can live with no ground beneath the feet, always walking the tight rope. _You_ can't. I am what I am; nothing more, nothing less." Sherlock turned up his mouth in a feigned expression of remorse. "I'm an island in the sun. Very British, isn't it? Splendid isolation."

Out of the blue, John felt better than he had felt in weeks. "_That's just like you, doctor_" he silently berated himself. "_Once a__n illness has got a name __it becomes less invincible__. Idiotic __medic's __superstition._" Then a revelation hit him. "The man who explained this ontological thing to you… it was Mycroft" he stated in a second of clear-sightedness.

"It was his gift for my eighteenth birthday." Sherlock rose, some invisible glass wall re-erected itself, and the moment of candour was gone.

"Charming" John said nevertheless. "How thoughtful of your elder brother."

"He meant well, I presume" Sherlock dismissed the sentiment. "About these clothes, John" he said, all business, "think of them as a uniform. I bet these ridiculous jackets and piped pants aren't very comfortable either. I need you with me. We've got our first case."

"I beg your pardon?"

"We are going to meet His Royal Highness the Crown Prince of Jahaldapour, Dr. Watson. It'll have to be the golden cufflings, I'm afraid." Sherlock grinned like a Cheshire Cat.

"You're kidding me" John voiced his sincerest hope.

"I'm not" Sherlock answered. "But if you want to meet His Highness in a bedsheet - well, we've tried that with royalty before, didn't we?"

"Sherlock" John said with a very dry mouth "please tell me that you're not serious."

"About the bedsheet?" Sherlock asked back, in a soft tone and with a most angelic smile.

John closed his eyes.


	7. Rough diamonds and tough cookies

**7 Rough diamonds and tough cookies  
**

"Come in, come in" Sherlock beamed, and with a very polite, very generous gesture he invited the visitor in, a sturdy, impeccably dressed man, who looked every bit like an over-tired version of Alfred Hitchcock. "May I introduce my friend and colleague, Dr John Watson? John, please meet Mr Malcolm Holmes, from the Foreign Office!"

"A pleasure" John said mechanically as he shook the fat, soft and a bit sweaty hand that was lazily offered to him.

"Yes, isn't it" Sherlock chimed in, and with the words "sit down, old man" he pushed a chair under Malcolm's backside.

The Whitehall Mandarin creaked down on the precariously fragile looking seat with an accusing look on his chubby face. "You didn't mention the stairs!" He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed his brow and glared at Sherlock.

John, who had been fidgeting ever since the, to him, surprising arrival, blurted out: "Fancy a cuppa?"

"I do beg your pardon?" Malcolm said. Quite obviously the expression was a bit too fancy for him.

"You know" John said "tea?"

The visitor dismissed the fanciful notion of having tea with two scoundrels who pretended to be gentlemen with the iron, tale-telling politeness that was, even in Mycroft's modern days, an inbred talent of diplomatic services. His flawless reply "I'm not quite following you" had '_Go and rot somewhere, but please do it quietly_' as an unmistakable subtext.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Watson nonetheless repeated, slowly and carefully, as if the other was suffering from impaired hearing.

Malcolm heaved a silent sigh and decided that there was no better way to get rid of the dimwit. "If it can't be avoided."

"You'll have it in no time. C'me on, Sherlock." And with these words, John pushed a for once completely surprised Sherlock into the part of their flat, which, in the 21st century, would house the kitchen equipment. Unfortunately, in 1898, it housed nothing but a cabinet with some cleaning stuff, buckets and old linen. It was one of the things John frequently tended to forget, so that by now he was quite intimate with Mrs Hudson's brooms and brushes.

"John" Sherlock said, quite reasonably in his own opinion, "there is no tea here. Let go of my arm, and I'll call for our housekeeper. You know we have a housekeeper now, don't you? I told you, remember?"

"Oh, you've told me a lot of things" John spat back, softly but with all the venom he could muster "for example that Mr Malcolm Holmes would never come near us. That he wouldn't come after our hides, so that we are going to vanish in some damp, ugly Victorian prison cell for the rest of our miserable lives!"

"Well" Sherlock drawled "I got that a bit wrong …."

"A BIT?"

"All right, I got that very wrong. What does it matter? He likes me. He's family. Not that he would believe that, obviously. But he is. In a manner of speaking!"

"Sherlock….."

"Look, John. There's nothing to worry. He had me arrested a few days ago…."

"WHAT?"

"And he wanted to arrest you, too, obviously, and so I had…."

"_WHAT_?"

"Well, it was obvious that I had to…."

"Say '_obvious_' one more time, Sherlock Holmes, just _one_ more time, and I ... John hissed through gritted teeth, searching for a really impressive threat.

Sherlock scrutinized his friend briefly, before he stepped back as far as he could without having his arm free, and raised a calming hand. "John…."

"I know my name, damn you. What on earth are we going to do?"

"Find the Raja's jewels, and the thief who stole them, and Malcolm will be on his knees in eternal gratitude. Piece of cake."

"Sherlock….."

"Excuse me, gentlemen" a third voice interrupted whatever Sherlock had thought to reply "but if we are to have our conversation inside this closet, I would like to know." Malcolm's dissatisfied pug face was red and puffy. He was _not_ amused.

"As I was just saying to my dear friend" Sherlock said hastily "we won't find some clean table linen in here!" and he steered the two of them back into the living room, where John recovered enough of his common sense to go down and ask Mrs Hudson for their tea.

On his return to the living room, he found Sherlock and his (what was he, great-great-grandfather or something?) in most amiable conversation over two glasses of brandy, like the very best of pals. Sherlock was just sharing an amusing little anecdote from his soldiering days in Afghanistan, which, but for a few minor details, had the merit of being perfectly true, except for the fact that it had happened to a certain Captain John Watson M. D.

"I say, Dr Watson" Malcolm nasalized, looking much more relaxed than before "I envy you both. Such an adventurous life. At first I wasn't too happy about Sherlock feigning to be my brother, but now I'm glad I've met you. You two are just the men for the job."

"What job?" John asked curtly.

"The trivial odd job you're going to do for me, now and then, because you're so overwhelmed with gratitude for my generosity in letting you go on with your amusing little charade here" Malcolm said with faked joviality. "Instead of having you chained down in some penal colony at the end of the world. Ours is such a vast Empire. Did I make myself clear, Dr Watson?"

"Perfectly" John retorted drily, his gaze drilling into Sherlock's eyes. "What can we do for you, Sir?"

"It's easy enough" Malcolm said, all kindness and complaisance now that he had thrown his weight around like the perfect bully he really was. "His Royal Highness the Crown Prince of Jahaldapour, second son of the Maharaja, has had … let's call it a streak of bad luck. He's presently visiting, by his father's orders, our glorious capital city, and, quite naturally, he wishes to pay tribute to his Empress, our sovereign Queen."

"What's so natural about that?" John asked without thinking, which earned him a dig in the ribs from Sherlock.

Irritably, Malcolm cleared his throat. Obviously he liked being interrupted as much as his distant relative Mycroft would: Not at all. "The Crown of Jahaldapour possesses two sets of matching jewels, each of them worth a King's ransom" he continued. "I would say, the crown 'owns' the jewels, but that would do the rascals too much honour. The way they came by them, two generations back….. , well, never mind that now. Anyway, the Maharaja wishes to present these jewels to our Queen, as a token of his admiration and loyalty…."

"Doubtlessly this wish originates from the constant effort of our colonial services in India on behalf of the British exchequer" John proffered politely, which made Sherlock softly groan by his side.

Malcolm glared at him, murderously, and Sherlock shifted in his chair as if to make ready for a quick jump. However, the civil servant restrained himself, if laboriously. "I say, you do have a peculiar attitude for an officer of one of the British army's most distinguished regiments, Dr Watson. But then, we both know you never joined the British army, did you. So let's say no more about it, shall we, before _we_ say something that _you_ might come to regret. Where was I? Oh yes…."

Alas, again Malcolm had no chance to complete his narrative as there was a knock at the door and in went Mrs Hudson with a huge tea tray full of goodies from her kitchen.

As she was no match for her future self's genius at the baking stove, John sighed silently. With a painful, burning desire he missed _his_ Mrs Hudson's delicacies and personal additions to modern, wholesome British cuisine.

19th century's Baker Street concrete cake and even harder cookies, all much too sweet and heavy, wouldn't do much to lighten the spirit. Neither would the black tea – virtually black like ink, by all appearances – nor the scones with lemon curd as bitter as gall, accompanied by butter salty enough to spice the Baltic Sea. However, one had to admit that the salt valiantly battled the ancient butter's staleness.

"Here you are, gentlemen" she said with a pinched smile that was as much a part of her as the thin grey hair. "Enjoy your meal."

For the next ten minutes or so, John forgot about the whole jewel thing, as he marvelled, virtually mesmerized, at Malcolm enraptured devouring the loathsome vitals. "Dear Lady" the Whitehall man said in the end, between two bites of the older of the two cakes (the desk-jockey, for all his sick, overweight appearances had to have teeth, as healthy and strong as those of a Bengal tiger, John thought), "this is marvellous. Marvellous indeed. Might we presume on your kindness even further and call for you to take that tray away as soon as we are finished here?"

"Oh" she belatedly got the clue. "Of course, Sir. I leave you gentlemen to your business."

"Thank you, my dear. Thank you so much." Malcolm smiled warmly at her.

As soon as she had left, the visitor dropped the cake, pushed the tea cup as far away as possible, and shoved his chair a bit further away from the table. All he kept was his glass of brandy. With much relief John gathered that his knowledge of the human digestion and the stomach's needs was still accurate, even in this accursed century. Whitehall just trained their staff to distraction. Doubtlessly one Mycroft Holmes would one day learn to chew raw ants with the same degree of well-faked adoration his ancestor had just shown.

"As I said" Malcolm resumed his much harassed report "the Crown Prince is supposed to deliver the jewels, come tomorrow's audience. Unfortunately, he has no chance to do that, as they have been stolen from him, almost a week ago. I can delay the Buckingham Palace audience by a day or two, not longer. At first, I was confident that Scotland Yard would bring the loot back in no time, especially as Inspector Gregson had assured me on that, most persuasively."

Here, for the very first time since Malcolm had begun talking, Sherlock made a sound, aside from groaning, chewing, or pouring tea. As had to be expected, he huffed sarcastically at the mentioning of the Yard's gross incompetence.

"So the police are clueless as to what has happened to the jewels?" John made sure that he had heard correctly.

"Quite clueless, yes" Malcolm confirmed angrily.

"How were they stolen in the first place?"

"His Highness is accompanied by his sister, the Princess Ashwarija. I'm made to understand that Her Highness has been … somewhat foolish."

"They do have a lot of fools in that family then?" John jested where he should have been quiet. Astonished, he noticed that Malcolm's ears were burning red already and the stupid joke made the veins on the man's neck swell in a most unhealthy manner.

"The Princess has led …. a rather sheltered life so far" the Whitehall man spoke louder and harsher than before "and the temptations of urban decadence ….. a brother isn't a substitute for a mother's watchful eye. Or a suitable chaperon."

"Are you telling me that the girl took a lover to her London flat, and the gigolo stole the jewels after the fun?" John blurted out in complete disbelief.

Sherlock covered his face with his hand, but even so John heard the barely stifled mad chuckle. Malcolm, a gruesomely mortified Malcolm, looked everywhere but at the brute who'd made the indelicate remark.

John, quite unaware of the scandal he was causing, whistled noiselessly. "Oh ho-ho… the Lady has guts. If her father finds out ….."

"The Lady's guts aren't the issue here, Dr Watson" Malcolm hollered. "Nor are her ….." At once, he controlled himself. "But you are right on all other points. The handsome young man with whom she was seen earlier that fateful night must have persuaded her to show him the safe in her brother's study; even to open it, to parade the priceless jewels before him, thereby, stupidly if involuntarily, giving away the safe's combination. Naturally she denies every word of it, or so I'm told. But there is no other way the jewels could have been stolen. The safe was unharmed, and only the royal siblings knew the combination."

"Could not the brother be the thief?"

"Why should the Prince steal his own jewels? One day not too far in the future, the whole treasure of Jahaldapour will be at his disposal."

"Poor wretched girl" John muttered.

"Pity _me_, Dr Watson" Malcolm said acidly "and the British Foreign Office. If her father _does_ find out what his daughter has been up to, in London, under our care and protection…. It doesn't bare thinking about. The girl is engaged to be _married_ to the son of another Raja. You can't imagine the political and diplomatic consequences of her foolishness."

"I can, believe me" John said, now utterly sobered. "Three years in Afghanistan, remember? The women there have to live up to some very high moral standards, too, if you follow my drift."

"So you see my dilemma" Malcolm said. "The jewels must be found during the next 24 hours, returned to the Prince with no one the wiser, so that he can present them to Buckingham Palace as planned, and his sister to her husband-to-be in three months' time, as if nothing has happened. Or I'll swing for it."

"You mean …. surely that's exaggerated…." John stammered, who, when it came to 19th century justice, always imagined the worst.

"He means professionally, John" Sherlock said. "It's just a figure of speech. His career will be ruined. As, come to think of it, will the wretched girl be in any case. Doubtlessly her husband will find out."

"If he or her brother twists the trollop's neck for her lack of decency and parade, it would be no more than she deserves" Malcolm barked. "As long as it does not happen here, and has no connection to the British government, they can do with her whatever they want. All _I_ have to do is to retrieve the jewels."

"Charming" Sherlock smiled. "It's quite the civilized, humane attitude I would have expected from our Foreign Office, by all my personal experience. I do not doubt that I …. - that is, WE – can find and return your precious baubles."

"Let me get that clear one more time, dear 'brother' Sherlock" Malcolm coldly interrupted him. "You humour me on this one, and on some other occasions that might come up in the future, discreetly and efficiently, and I will pay you and your friend here a handsome, regular fee as well as a bonus for every specific service rendered. I will let you keep my family name, I will even give you some documents to prove, if necessary, that you two are who you claim to be. But let me down, just once, and I crush you. I make a solemn promise that neither of you will ever see freedom again for the very short duration of your lives. Understood?"

"Quite" Sherlock said, unruffled. "That was the deal we already agreed upon. Now, if you would answer a few questions….."

"A moment, please" John interjected. "As this deal includes me, shouldn't you have asked me first?"

"A simple choice, John" Sherlock retorted lazily. "Either you shut up now, or he is going to shut us both up later on, and for good. Is that concise enough for you?"

Watson folded both arms before his chest, threw himself back in his chair, and glared at Sherlock in no uncertain way. As far as he was concerned, this Whitehall bigwig was an even less adorable member of the Holmes family than the 'British Government" he knew. If Mycroft appeared cold hearted at times, this guy was from the Arctic. Another Iceman, indeed.

"Who saw the Princess with that 'handsome young man' as you called him, on the night of the theft?" Sherlock meanwhile asked Malcolm.

"A member of the Prince's household, his gentleman secretary, Gupta-Rao."

"And he didn't think of mentioning it to his master at the time?"

"The Prince wasn't at home. Besides, Gupta feared for his job. His word against that of a royal princess."

"Still the word of a man against that of a woman" Sherlock said drily. "It all depends. Is there anything you can tell me about the siblings' relationship to each other or to their parents?"

"Where would we be if the British administration would meddle with the Maharaja's family affairs?" Malcolm said stiffly, but he shrugged immediately afterwards. "There are rumours, of course… there always are. The Maharaja, 69 years of age, is a proud man, an independent and free spirit you might say, especially on behalf of his sovereign rule in his kingdom. His first born son was his favourite, the apple of his eye. But Prince Arjun died in a riding accident some 14 months ago. Since then, the Maharaja has not been his old self. He's ill, by all accounts, very ill. There's talk that his second son, Harinder, isn't all what his father would want him to be, but as to the reasons behind that …." Malcolm shrugged again. "Beats me, I must say. I find Prince Harinder amiable, good-mannered – educated in England of course – intelligent and quite pro-British."

"Is he indeed" Sherlock said. "And the princess?"

"17 years of age, a beauty by all accounts, but naturally I couldn't say. I met her once, on their arrival at their family's house in London, and only for a minute or two. She lives in purdah, her family has a rather extreme view on that, so she was veiled. And it was below her to address me directly, her brother spoke for her. A bit tall-ish for all I could see, but with long and slender legs. She left us, and that was that."

"By whose accounts is she a beauty then?" Sherlock asked with a frown he kept in special reserve for illogical tittle-tattle.

"There are English Ladies of quality in India" Malcolm said indignantly "who've met her, while her mother still lived, who died some years ago. And they sang praises of the girl's beauty. And bright as a bee. Good at conversation, too, not in the least shy. An ideal Hindu miniature, that was what one of the Ladies said."

"Well, I can imagine" John muttered acidly under his breath. He had his own nasty experiences with white people talking about coloured people and coloured people talking about white people, and neither way the talking had been any pleasant.

"And the Princess was what by then, 12? 13?" Sherlock insisted.

"Closer to 14" Malcolm said. "Quite the little woman, I was made to understand."

"Was her and Prince Harinder's mother in the habit of showing her children off to strangers?"

Malcolm - almost - rolled his eyes. "Isn't any mother in that habit?" he asked rhetorically. "And it was the girl's and Prince Arjun's mother. Maharajas, even the best of them, value their own weird life-style. Prince Harinder's mother, originally the Maharaja's concubine" (here Malcom's ears reddened again) "happens to be alive."

"Are there any British servants in the house?"

"A fifty-two year old, married butler, his wife, and two elderly spinster maids. When in London the Indian nobility is expected to entertain. Not all the guests are Indian. For English guests you would, as a considerate host, of course want to keep up some minimal British standards. But these servants do not sleep in the main house. They've got their quarters in an adjourning building, bought for that explicit purpose."

"Anything else that might be of value to my investigation?"

"Frankly, I do not see what the Maharaja's family business has to do with the theft" Malcolm said angrily. "Seems to me you're as clueless as Scotland Yard!"

John waited for Sherlock's inevitable vicious repartee, which would doubtlessly land them both in jail, and he was crushed when he saw his friend smile quite amicably. "Everything is connected to anything" Sherlock said politely. "Almost everywhere. But be that as it may. Naturally I would have to meet Their Highnesses in their London home."

"Impossible" Malcolm said spontaneously.

"Dear Mr Holmes, I took you for a man who makes the impossible possible" Sherlock said silkily.

"And I took you for a man who understands his options, Sherlock, my dear" Malcolm retorted with narrowed eyes. "If this investigation leads to nothing, it will land you and your friend in the worst predicament I can think of."

"As it will land you, dear Malcolm, out of your precious office. I wonder who is going to have the better of the bargain. Aren't you?"

Malcolm leaned back in his chair and scrutinized Sherlock, who, if possible, smiled even more angelically than before. "Perhaps" the Whitehall Mandarin reluctantly said "I could introduce you and your friend to Prince Harinder as my assistants."

"Indeed" Sherlock said dreamingly. "Did I ever tell you that I have an elder brother who would have loved seeing me delve into foreign affairs? Good old Mycroft, this would do him proud, I'm just like this Consulting Expert of yours, this ….."

"Well, no need to keep you any longer" Malcolm said hastily, already rising from his chair. "I'll let you know the time of your audience with Harinder as soon as possible. Good day, Sherlock. Dr Watson…"

John brought their visitor to the door and secretly relished in the man's haunted appearance. Whatever Sherlock's last unfinished remark had been about, it had sure rattled the supercilious official.

It had clearly made the Detective's day too. He sat there, his hands forming the usual pyramid in front of his face, and from time to time he chuckled softly.

Mrs Hudson came and went, the sun began to set, and still Sherlock had not stirred.

Finally, John lost his nerves, as he always did, no matter how resolved he was to appear as uncaring and detached as his all-knowing friend. "Well? What do you make of it? Don't sit there like the proverbial sphinx, our lives hang in the balance."

"Indeed" Sherlock replied without looking at the doctor. "By the way, did I tell you that it is gone?"

"That what is gone?"

"The machine. The time machine. A while ago I sneaked into the factory for a quick peep, just to make sure, and it was gone."

John felt as if someone had kicked his legs away underneath him. His breathing stopped, and he had to sit down, very quickly. He wanted to say something, but couldn't.

"I say again" Sherlock mused on, ignoring the other's shock and awe "isn't it marvellous sometimes how things are connected?"

All of a sudden, certainly abruptly enough to startle an already dumbfounded Watson into almost total shock, Sherlock jumped to his feet and grabbed his coat. "Come on, John, we're late as it is!"

"What? How? Where? And why? Sherlock …"

But Holmes was already half way down the stairs, and, for lack of any other chance to get more information, Watson followed him, still yelling "for God's sake, won't you tell me what this is all about?"

"We're going to meet the creator of our immortal fame and glory at the pub around the corner" Sherlock shouted back.

"Who?"

"Dr Doyle" Sherlock yelled over his shoulder. "Dr Arthur Conan Doyle! From Edinburgh!"

**A/N: Forgive me, folks, I know I've taken the liberty of mistiming Arthur Conan Doyle's participation in this plot. He published his first Sherlock Holmes novel in 1883 (I've just looked it up again in Wikipedia), and in 1898 Sherlock Holmes was already a veritable and venerable celebrity. Alas, I failed to look it up before I started this story, so now it has to be 1898 instead of 1883, that Arthur Conan Doyle is just 23 years old, eager to flex his literary muscles by writing detective stories. And he's come to London from E****d****inburgh roughly 18 months ago, before he meets our friends Sherlock and John in this story. I hope you can cope if you get my sincerest apology for the bad timing.**


	8. Hidden associations

**8 Hidden associations**

John was hell-bent to pester Sherlock for more information, but Holmes found an easy and very effective way to stop him – by running as fast as his long legs could manage. John chased after the outrageously long strides and panted like hell, ejecting useless questions between taking desperate gulps of the cool but by no means fresh night air. In spite of recent rain showers the air offended John's nostrils. They'd never been much insulted by the modern age's smell of gasoline, but this London reeked of …. other things.

On their arrival at the pub's doorstep, Sherlock was as calm and relaxed as a small town on a hot summer day, while John felt nauseous with exhaustion. Where were the days in which he'd run like a deer, alongside his lean, sportive friend, as if it was the most natural thing in the world?

"Sher…lock" John panted every word forth laboriously "I hate to admit it …. but you were right …, I _do_ need more exercise, now that I'm well again!"

"You're sure you're well again?"

John looked up, bewildered. Was that concern in the great man's voice? Whatever for, had he – as the doctor in the team – not just said all he lacked was exercise? "Sherlock, the poison is ancient history. I've been sitting on my ass for too long, that's all. Never did that in my soldiering days."

"If you say so, John." Still, Sherlock scrutinized the other with narrowed eyes, hesitation and a tad of awkwardness written all over his face. "I apologize, I should not have rushed you for nothing. Come on, let's get you into a chair."

John, still wondering if he'd heard correctly, allowed himself being dragged into the seating area and to a table in the corner of one of the brightly lit windows. What he had just heard had left him gobsmacked. Had Sherlock Holmes _apologized_ to him?

A tall, spindly, and somewhat wildly bearded man with the weather beaten skin typical for a sailor, apparently in his mid-twenties, rose from a chair to greet them. Even from a distance his voice was clearly audible over the hurly-burly in the densely populated restaurant, full of people in high spirits and low educational standards. "Mr Holmes" John heard "is that the pat…"

"That's my friend and colleague Dr John Watson" Holmes interrupted the stranger even louder. "John, please meet Dr Doyle. I met him at Malcolm's office, only a week ago. He works for Malcolm's department at the Foreign Office, same as us. Medical expertise, for example as a doctor for some distinguished guests of my brother's or such like. Another acquaintance of Malcolm's placed Dr Doyle with Whitehall only very recently. Isn't that so, Dr Doyle?"

More and more John was dismayed by Sherlock's unfamiliar pointless rambling, especially as the detective was also uncommonly fussy, shoving him into a chair, pressing a hand on the stranger's shoulder to make him sit down again; grabbing a menu from the next table, waving at the half-starved looking girl that stumbled around with a pitcher to refill the guests' glasses, all almost at the same time.

"Yee…..s" Doyle answered reluctantly, obviously as clueless as Watson as to what prompted Sherlock's strange behaviour. "My teacher at Edinburgh medical college, Dr John Bell - perhaps you've heard of him?" he asked John, with a hopeful, eager expression that was hardly visible on his overgrown features.

"No, I'm sorry" John said, ogling at Sherlock who delved into the menu as if food was the only important thing on this world.

"Well, anyway…" Doyle said, visibly embarrassed "Dr Bell is a very smart man, brilliant, you might say, absolutely brilliant, yes …. he introduced me to a friend of his, a professor at mathematics and astronomy, from Ireland, a papist of course, but smart, very smart … " Dr Doyle's voice trailed off, and he grinned sheepishly. It was obvious that nobody listened to him.

Sherlock was startled by the sudden silence; he looked up sharply, and put on a feigned, jovial smile with such lightning speed that it took his best friend's acute awareness to recognize the fake. "And this professor, who is also an associate of my brother Malcolm's, in turn recommended Dr Doyle here to Malcolm's department. But no more of him or of Whitehall for that matter. Not on such a lovely evening. Shall we order?" The last bit was, peculiarly, not accompanied by another look at the young waitress but by an intent glare at Dr Doyle, who once more blushed, and stared at his hands folded on the table.

Now John knew for sure that something was going on, and that this something had him for a centre. "Sherlock….?"

"You two doctors do have an awful lot in common, you know that, John?"

"No, how on earth should I know, you didn't say…."

"Well, you're both medical men, you've both been abroad for a while, and you both share an interest in literature – Dr Doyle here gives detective stories a try from time to time."

"Actually, I prefer writing historical novels over crime stories.." Doyle offered, a bit defiantly "and I also publish professionally, of course. 'Gelsemium as a poison', for example."

"See, John? Quite up your street, is it not."

"It wasn't Gelsemium, Sherlock. It was …"

"Something quite similar. By the way, Dr Doyle agreed to take some notes on our present case, John. Might even become one of his stories in the newspapers. A fine start for our new business as Consulting Detectives. Can't live on the Foreign Office's pocket alone, can we. I thought you and Dr Doyle could meet regularly, share your notes on the case, see what you can make of it, in way of a novel or story, between the two of you."

"Sherlock, if you would stop for just a second. You're firing away like a machine gun" John said, unnerved by the constant stream of talk-talk-talk from a man who usually spoke about his deductions if and when they happened and about nothing else, not even if you threatened him with severe punishment. Allegedly Mycroft had often tried that, to no avail.

"Well, sorry for that" Sherlock replied with another flashed smile. "Let's just say you two stick your heads together tomorrow, after we've spoken to His Highness Harinder and his sister, in Dr Doyle's consulting room, sometime after lunch."

"You do not even know if Malcolm can arrange for an audience at all, let alone tomorrow morning" John protested.

"Oh, come on, John. Malcolm is pressed for time, of course he'll make it tomorrow morning, and on the double. Trust me!"

Sherlock looked as confident and satisfied as a cat that ate the neighbour's canary, but there was something in his face, something like a hidden plea, that made John gulp down his angry objections. "All right" he agreed, against his better knowledge and all his instincts. "If Dr Doyle is not averse…"

"Of course not, Dr Watson. A pleasure."

"That's settled then" Sherlock said. "And I'm starving. I could eat a horse, hooves and all."

For the better part of the next hour, John just sat there, fighting with the unsettling impression that he had somehow become aphasic to reality. Here he was, sitting in a 19th century suit, in a 19th century pub, with his 21st century best friend by his side, who was talking most animatedly to a 19th century medical man that had gained most of his professional experience as a ship's doctor on a sailing ship whaler. The smell, the sounds, the look of the place – it was London and yet it felt like a foreign planet, light years and light years away from anything John Watson knew and loved.

And for the very first time since they had arrived in this mirror-house version of the town he loved above all places in this world, John allowed himself to think, to _really_ think for more than a split second, about the possibility that this would never go away, that he was a prisoner in this nightmare and would remain so for the rest of his days.

John felt his pulse rise, and his stomach fluttered. His breathing quickened, and suddenly the walls, the people, even the furniture seemed to close in on him. He felt oppressed; the noise too loud, the laughter too hostile, the bodies, the smells, all pressing him, crushing him. Air, air, he needed air to breathe. "I'm sorry….. please, would you let me out…."

"John?"

Somewhere at Watson's side was the worried voice, the blur of a concerned face, but it wasn't real, nothing of this could be real …. the only thing perfectly obvious was that he couldn't stay here, not for a second longer, or he would die.

"He can't stay" someone said. "Take him out, he's going to have a fit…." and the stranger (Doyle or something?) said something more that gave John an idea in the very back of his head, that the man was talking about something which, in an unfortunately distant future, would be called a panic attack.

Which was, of course, ridiculous. He didn't panic, he was a trained soldier, he never panicked. It was just so very hot and oppressive in here, too hot, too damn hot for anyone to breathe….

John regained his senses, or some of his senses anyway, only when he was outside, out of sight and out of earshot of the ale house, hanging limply, like a stupid rag doll, in the grip of an equally concerned Sherlock and Arthur Conan Doyle.

"It is as I feared, Mr Holmes" the other doctor was just saying "that's more than the aftermath of the shock you mentioned. Sometimes Gelsemium based poison does have that effect. I think his brain – his neural system if you so wish to call it – has been …. disturbed. Sounds, or optical, even olfactory stimuli may cause a kind of overflow that brings extreme anxiety or restiveness, sometimes nausea and some violent moods – it might even render him unconscious."

"Can you help him?" Sherlock's voice. Rapid. Rough.

_Dismayed_?

"I think I can. But doctors make bad patients. I guess he's no exception to the rule?"

"Leave it to me" Sherlock retorted resolvedly. "He'll do anything it takes, if he likes it or not, I'll make sure of that. By the way, is our little bet still on?"

"Yes, of course." Dr Doyle sounded as if he was smiling. "If you can solve the jewel case as quickly and soundlessly as you claim – which I still doubt, mind you – I'll do my best to persuade the man to meet you face to face. But remember, he may like puzzles and interesting people, yet he's terribly shy. A real scholar. I can't give you any guarantees other than that I'll speak to him about you. He's my patient, not my charge."

"As long as you keep your side of the bargain – I'm pretty sure I can live up to the great man's expectations."

"If you say so, Mr Holmes …." Doyle chuckled, but he stopped himself almost immediately. "You should bring your friend home though, he needs rest. Some peace and quiet will be the best medicine."

"We'll take a cab from here, thank you Dr Doyle. And give my regards to your patient."

"You never know" Doyle answered, cautiously laying John's still limp arm on Sherlock's shoulder. Turning to leave, he chuckled again, and from some steps' distance, he turned back and repeated "you never know. Not with the Professor. And I rely on you Mr Holmes. The sooner you turn your friend in at my institute, the better."

John's head snapped up. He grabbed Sherlock's collar to make the detective look at him. This was outrageous, it just couldn't be true …

Sherlock's skin looked ghastly pale in the dim gas light, he was frowning questioningly but all John could see was guilt written all over the face.

Watson lost hold of the damp fabric of the collar when Sherlock suddenly jerked back, and side stepped.

Bewildered, unbelievingly John watched his friend spiral down to the ground in a gracious, elegant flow, like a dancer. Watson looked at his hands – what …..?

The tips of John's fingers were sticky wet, covered in some dark liquid.

But it was only when Dr Doyle jumped to Sherlock's sprawled out body that John recognized the sound that still echoed in the back of his head as that of a shot that had hit Sherlock in the head.


End file.
